A Moment of Honesty

I am sad. I want to go to Christmas services, but I know I will sob, and I just want someone to hold me as I cry. And I am tired of people looking at me with pity or confusion or some mixture of the two...or worse, those who just don't get it and don't even try.

My grief feels like a burden. A burden I'm trying to shield others from... because as silly as it sounds, a part of me does feel like because it's been a year since my mom died... I should be "over it." 

And I have so much to say, but none of it wants to come out. Or it comes out how it appears in this blog post—disjointed, scattered, wrought with intensity but not really making much sense.

I feel weak and small and like I can't breathe.

My family will not be together this Christmas. My dad is in Georgia, my nieces and nephew are doing their own thing.

I am alone, although my best friend and I will have a nice dinner Christmas evening.

Truthfully, my family can never be together in the same way ever again, no matter what, and I don’t have any fancy words for it, it just sucks so badly and feels so heavy that I can barely breathe.

I should not be the oldest woman in my family. Not yet...I'm too young. I don't know how to do this... grief is such an evil beast sometimes.

I have made a complete ass out of myself lately—I’ve made so many mistakes, said so many ridiculous things, and felt borderline out of control with my emotions...so much, so raw... to the point that a little piece of me wants to shut down.

Another part of me still doesn’t understand how I am the one living, when no one depends on me, and I think of Kasey—and Leigha, Aaron, and Alexis—and I wonder at the absolute unfairness of it all, how hard this is for someone as “strong” as I am to handle, but how are the kids really hanging in there? How are they actually handling this?

I look around and see sisterly love all around me… and I am blessed to have sisterly love in my own life, too.

But it’s like a part of me has died—forever—because my only sister is gone from this earth. I can see her facial expressions and hear her words and her tone of voice when Leigha talks, especially to her kids—but I ache to hear Wendy’s voice again. I ache to share childhood stories again. I can’t call her, text her, or Facebook message her ever again. This is not a new reality, but it sure as hell feels new… still…

As Christmas approaches so fast… I can’t help but think of all the hours spent putting up Christmas decorations—the careful placement of tiny pixies and other assorted Christmas knick-knacks, the deliberate placement of lights on the tree, the smell of apple cider in the crock pot, the fussing Mama used to do, ordering Daddy around as if he should be able to read her mind at this point—those memories have taken me over a lot lately, and there’s nothing I want more than to be back in the house I grew up in—as chaotic and angry as it sometimes was—because the carpet I traced patterns in was there—the linoleum I made into roadways for my matchbox cars was there—the creaking floorboards were there, and I knew that house so well that I could walk all through it, avoiding every creaking board, quiet as a mouse.

(I sometimes tested that theory after everyone had gone to bed, when I would lie awake, disturbed by some nightmare, and I felt the need to walk through the house, or make my way out to the den to watch TV with the sound turned down so low, I could barely hear it, as I sat totally still, listening for the stirrings of Mama so I could rush to turn it off, undetected.)

The point is—my whole existence began in that house. That house was my first point of reference, and—as every cell in my body and every breath of my soul seeks reassurance, guidance, and comfort—my psyche takes me back to the Pandora’s Box of 535 Northill Drive.

I spent roughly the first half of my life in that house. And all of the emotions and memories and arguments and laughter and meals and the life we lived was contained within those walls. I still go back there in my dreams, and almost every single night lately, I’ve been in that house, dreaming… my mind grasping at things that can no longer be… even in my sleep, my restless, tossing turning sleep…

Like the way Wendy got so mad when I spied on her and her latest boyfriend as they sat in the living room, with the louver doors closed. I peered through the slats and wedged the doors open as little as possible just to get a glimpse of what might be happening. I mostly did it because I knew it drove Wendy absolutely insane. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for, or what I hoped to catch—I was so much younger… I just knew it made her crazy, and that was enough for me.

And walking around the vintage and antique stores yesterday just before I left Austin was a special kind of nostalgic torture, too, because I saw so many things—things I never would have imagined seeing in a shop like that—that we used to have. Vases I had to dust, over and over again… Season’s Greetings cocktail glasses, the embroidered floral scene with strange coloring and the drabbest taupe-y brown fabric background—including the thin wooden frame—so many things… light fixtures, dishes, furniture—that we either had, had something similar to it, or that somehow catapulted me back to that house… 535 Northill Drive… and that period of time… as if it were yesterday.

I could feel Mama all around, and I could feel Wendy, too.

At one point, I had to get the hell out of there. It was really just too much.

Bittersweet:

Life is full of these moments, where the flipside of joy is a deep ocean of pain, where tears of laughter and happiness are even louder and more poignant because underneath that big laugh lies a cavernous well of memories and loss…

And I am here, and I don’t know why… I don’t understand the blessings that I have received.

But I am receiving them…

And, I am open.

As painful as it is right now, I am open.

The State of Me

So, I’m back in the dating realm. It was a conscious, slow decision this time around.

I joined eHarmony and ended up going on three very promising dates with someone who seemed very… promising…

Except he balked when I asked for—basically proof of who he is. Because to be honest, there were some holes, and some things just weren’t adding up.

Granted—I didn’t handle it well. I could have approached the whole thing better than I actually did. I took accountability for the way I handled it, explained how I wished I had handled it, and asked to move forward.

But as the old saying goes, “God is efficient,” and apparently even though so much felt right with the guy… it was to end swiftly. Because even though he “promised” that we would talk once he was back in town, that talk never came.

It got me thinking that I was onto something, that he was indeed hiding some truth that he didn’t want me to know.

There is fire, and there is lust,
Some would trade it all for someone they could trust.
There’s a bag of silver for a box of nails
It’s so simple, the betrayal,
Though it’s known to change the world and what’s to come…
 – Come on Home by the Indigo Girls

And so it is, I am single and heading into the first holiday season without  my sister and my mom.

I sat in a very full meeting earlier today and caught myself staring at the date: 11/20/2013.

It hit me—like a ton of bricks—that nine days from now is the one year anniversary of losing my mom. Instantly, my mind flashed back to our last conversation, to the last time I saw her (which was on Thanksgiving day last year), to the last time I smelled her scent, to the last time I felt her arms around me.

It’s already been too long.

I kept my composure in the meeting, which I wouldn’t have been able to do only months before now. But now, when I’m at home alone, I am breathless with tears, remembering her smile and her laugh and the way she always knew just exactly what to say, especially when I needed words of encouragement.

I could use those words now, especially about dating…

Nothing helps. Time doesn’t help… time is this cryptic, mystical concept that doesn’t heal anything. The only thing that heals is consciously focusing on healing.

Speaking of healing… my dad and I avoided talking about Thanksgiving for weeks. Finally, I told him that maybe we shouldn’t bother with the meal on Thursday. Maybe we should get together on Friday instead… the 29^th… to just be together. That’s the one year anniversary of losing my mama… and I can’t think of anything I would rather do than be around the people who loved her most.

So, that’s what we’re doing.

But Christmas… that’s a whole other story.

I’m not sure I want to do Christmas this year.

I don’t know yet.

For now, back to dating…

I’m not entirely sure how I remain hopeful. It would be so easy to become jaded and assume that every man is a liar and a cheater. But I don’t believe that.

I am a good woman. A really good woman. I have a lot to offer. A lot to give.

And I would like to receive from someone who is equally generous…

And so, I have raised my standards. I have a pretty tall order for the “right” guy, and nothing and nobody will cause me to compromise or settle.

That’s not to say that dating isn’t incredibly frustrating (on multiple fronts… *ahem*).

It is.

Very.

But, it’s also fun.

It’s fun to discover new people and broaden my own experience. Every interaction I have helps me further refine what and who I am looking for, and that’s positive. So positive, that perhaps I should write a dating book when it’s all said and done!

(It has crossed my mind…)

Of course, dating is exhausting, too… especially when I come across people who tout one thing so loudly, yet their actions deliver opposite results. It pisses me off when people throw around words like “honesty” and “integrity” without truly following through on the meanings of those words with their actions.

And so… those folks get the boot.

Quickly.

And that’s okay.

One thing is certain: I am becoming much more efficient and adept at combing through the dating profiles as well as eliminating those guys who just aren’t for me.

My sincere hope is that he’s out there.

Somewhere.

And hopefully not too far away…

Grief, and Where I Am Today

Three weeks from today is the one-year anniversary of losing my mom.

You might as well say I’ve lived nearly a year without one of my limbs, because I feel like a part of me has been amputated. I have to live without she who carried me in her womb for nine months… she who nearly died soon after I was born because of a severe infection… she who went into the work force for the first time in her life when I told her I wanted to go to college… she who held her tongue many times when she didn’t want to… she who spoke her mind, even when no one wanted her to… she who made a bigger imprint on my very being than anyone else in the entire world ever could, can, or will make.

I can’t believe it’s been nearly a year. It feels like yesterday… and years ago. It feels like, just last week, Wendy and Daddy and I were deciding what to put on the grave marker. It feels like a few hours ago, talking to Daddy on the phone and hearing that tone in his voice—the tone I had never heard before, when he told me it was important to come to the hospital—now.

And it was still too late…

I’ve been through so much—we all have, really—and yet, I’m still going.

Some days are easier than others. Some days make sense. Some days don’t.

Sometimes, my mood still astounds me. The grief feelings bubble underneath my surface as I try to carry on normal conversations, actions, thoughts, and words throughout the day. Some days, I succeed.

Other days—not so much.

And of course, if I had “only” lost my mom, that would be enough. But then a drunk driver killed my sister, and then I found out the man I was dating was having an affair. And all of these things have shaped me and changed me far more than I can articulate here, in one blog post.

I wish I could say that I have some sort of grand perspective. That I feel “better” about losing my mom. Or even that I understand it.

I don’t.

I can say that I am more grateful for life now than I was before.

I can say that my mind has opened up, and things I never would have previously considered have become part of my day to day tapestry. Things like past-life regression… visiting a medium… collecting crystals and meditating with them… performing rituals and ritual dances… equine therapy… grief groups… communicating with my deceased loved ones… reading about grief… blogging about grief… EMDR therapy... managing slippery-slope emotions while trying to function like “normal”…

All the while, I’ve been learning how to laugh again.

I’ve been learning how to let joy back into my life without feeling so damned guilty about still being alive.

I’ve become open to the possibility of romantic love in my life again.

I’ve gained more wisdom than I ever wanted.

I’ve learned more than I ever thought I would.

I’ve lost weight.

I’ve started learning what it actually looks and feels like, on a day to day basis, to take care of myself physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually…

But if I could trade it all to bring back my mom…

I would.

Life doesn’t work that way, though. And so, I am here, feeling grateful for the privilege of waking up every day, and I am trying to make the best of it—even through the tears… even through the confusion and heartache and sadness…

Through it all, I am here. Still standing.

Still believing.

And, somehow—

Still having faith.

Happy 38th to Me

Today is bittersweet.

In so many ways, I am blessed. I have a great boyfriend, I adore his kids, and my dad and I are closer than we’ve ever been.

Work has been understanding, friends and family have reached out, I’ve got some much-needed respite… and all of these things help me. They all help me heal.

But today is still painful.

Mama always used to call me on my birthday—usually to sing happy birthday, and just to say hello. I managed to save one of her voicemails from an old phone.

But I’ll never get another call from her.

And today, it’s even larger than life, because my sister took the old Kitchen Aid mixer after my mom died. She borrowed it to make pies at Christmas, and I’m pretty sure my dad told her to just keep it.

Thing is… my mom had bought a brand new 5 quart Kitchen Aid Deluxe mixer, complete with her favorite accessory—the glass bowl—and had never once used it.

She actually had my dad get out the old one anytime she needed to use a mixer, because for whatever reason, she didn’t want to use the brand new one.

My dad brought me the new one this week, so I could use it to make some cupcakes for my birthday celebration this weekend.

It’s beautiful and red.

And I broke it in today.

Every time I bake, I think about my mom… I think about all of the things she taught me in the kitchen—how baking is a science, and measurements are important. You can’t multi-task when baking, you need to stay in the moment so you can be aware of exactly what needs to happen next.

Follow the steps in order, stop the mixer and use the spatula to clear the sides of the bowl, add dry ingredients first on one side, then the other, add eggs one at a time, add wet ingredients slowly, add dry ingredients even more slowly—

All of these tidbits came rushing back to me as I used the red Kitchen Aid for the first time. Then it hit me—the last time I had actually used a Kitchen Aid was back in the house I grew up in, standing on the brown linoleum floor, in the olive drab kitchen with mustard yellow appliances, and the old white Kitchen Aid perched atop the big cutting board, whirring away, and Mama standing next to me, patiently giving me instructions.

I think about her every time I bake. Every time I make fudge, every time I make pie… and I suppose it’s worth noting that up until now, I’ve baked without the use of a mixer. But with my carpel tunnel getting worse, I really need it, so now I am glad to have one.

I just hate the circumstances…

And David tried to help me, too. I’d never made cupcakes from scratch before, and I’d never made ganache (that changes NOW… since I now know just how easy it is), and my stress level kept creeping up and up the scale, and he’s trying to do everything he can to help me, and I’m barking orders at him—just like Mama did to Daddy, year after year, holiday after holiday, baking occasion after baking occasion. She needed him to mix, to hold bowls while she scraped them into another dish, wash dishes, get supplies—basically, she needed him to be her extra pair of hands and her extra set of eyes.

And once I realized I was doing the exact same thing, and that I’d stumbled upon yet another thing that makes me just like my Mama… I lost it.

I realize every day how I am like my mom. How I’m stubborn and proud, how I’m incredibly anal and particular about exactly how I want things done when I’m working in the kitchen, and how I need my David, the way my mom needed her David—to help, and to never stray very far, but to only help in the way I want him to help.

The cupcakes look great.

The ganache is setting up.

David went to the gym.

The dryer is going.

The house is quiet, and I’m left with only my thoughts and my tears.

I have so much to be grateful for, and believe me—I am—but I am also deeply sad in a way that I cannot articulate and no one can truly understand, unless they’ve been through it too.

I get to live.

And I am re-evaluating what exactly that means for me, because nothing reset my priorities faster than losing two of the most important people in my entire life.

So, today, I am 38.

I get to live.

I don’t understand that yet, but I am beginning to truly understand the legacy my family has created.

And that I am part of it.

And that my part is not done.

The Real Face of Grief, aka Where I Am Right Now.

I wrote this after waking up from a terrible nightmare around 2:30 this morning. I sobbed in bed, the kind of breathless sobs where your whole body shakes. David woke up just enough to turn over and hold me. After a while, I calmed down enough to get up and write.  

I am posting this here, because this is what grief really looks like. It's ugly, it's terrifying, it's guttural.  

And that's okay. 

I want to take shame off the table. My family is suffering bone-deep loss, and trying to hide it, gloss over it, minimize it, or worst of all, "suck it up," doesn't help.  

The only thing that helps is release.

I cannot express how terrifying it is to wake up from a horrific dream only to realize... it’s my reality.

I can’t cry hard enough or long enough to free this pain inside of me. I wail, my eyes clamped shut and my mouth wide open, trying so hard to release the pain, to push it out from my very depths—from every single cell it wants to leave my body, but it is here… it remains…

Why am I the one living? Why wasn’t I taken? I don’t have any small children relying on me… I don’t have anyone relying on me, truthfully… how can I still be alive? How can I still be left here to feel so much when every morning I wake up, and I’m just confused as to why—why I’m even here, why my body is somehow still working, why all the systems within continue propelling me from present moment to present moment…

When I was little, I used to wake up from nightmares about being in a car accident with my grandmother and me in the back seat, Daddy driving, and Mama in the front seat. We sat in those designated seats—Mur-Mur behind Daddy, and me behind Mama—every time the four of us went anywhere. And in my nightmare, there was a car accident, and I was the only survivor.

(If my sister hadn’t moved out on her own at that point, she would have been in that nightmare, too, and then that nightmare would be even closer to my current reality.)

Life keeps going… and all around me, people go to work, they sit in traffic, they wait in line, they text their friends, they scroll through Facebook—I know… I am existing in these moments too… I am doing these things too…

But it feels like my whole world has stopped, because it’s been turned utterly upside down and inside out, and I can’t do a damned thing about it.

Grief sucks, and right now it is really running me through the ringer. I have never, ever known this kind of pain before. I have never felt it… not until now… and of course looking at me from the outside in, of course I’m “strong enough to handle it,” etc… but right now I feel on the verge of a nervous breakdown… because that would be easier. It would be easier to just go completely nuts and totally lose my shit and end up at the asylum taking unlabeled pills to keep me sedated and numb. Right now, that kind of controlled environment is more appealing than the chaos of the outside world… this world I exist in which feels like a constant waking nightmare.

As I sit here, breathing in, breathing out, tears streaming down my face (and in moments like this, I am once again thankful that Mama made me take a typing class in ninth grade, because I can sit in total darkness and type fast), I wonder at the miracle of life and of living. It is truly a miracle, every day when I can open my eyes and get out of bed and live another day.

But right now? Right now it feels like a curse. Why were my mom and sister denied the miracle of life? Why?

Ironic—I offered comfort in my sister’s eulogy. I cautioned against asking why… because it will “make you crazy.” Yep, I said it, and that’s basically what I feel, because here I am, asking why, and most definitely feeling crazy.

What can I say—I was still in shock at that point.

Not in shock anymore.

This, I would say, is the darkest side of grief. When I’m sitting here vacillating between wishing I was dead, bargaining for trading places with my sister, and actually wishing to go crazy enough to be put into an asylum. All of those things seem easier than what I’m trying to cope with, the overpowering feelings I have, and the grief I feel.

The bargaining (oh wait, isn’t that a phase of grief?)—sounds like, please take me instead… take me instead… put me out of my misery and let my sister come back and raise her toddler and be here to shepherd her older kids fully into adulthood… No one truly needs me, but her kids and her husband need her. I need her. My dad needs her.

To be honest, I am barely functioning. I have to “check out” to a certain extent just to get through the day. When I am fully present, the feelings flood in—feelings that don’t have words or even need words.

I don’t feel like I can handle anything right now. I feel on the edge of tipping over… like one more little thing, one more little bump in the road, and there I’ll go—careening off the edge of the tiny winding highway, plunging down into the depths of rocky cliffs to my imminent death.

I am clinging to sanity by mere threads, and those threads are thin and weary and stretched to their max.

I have prayed and prayed… I have begged God to please take this from me, because I can’t handle it at all. I am totally at His mercy, and yet I am finding no comfort in that.

I find no comfort in anything…

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.