That Was Then. This is Now.

It is different, but still good. Happy Father's Day, Dad. You've handled the last eight months of catastrophic loss with love and grace. You are doing the work to grow through the grief, and I am so very thankful for the ways you've shown up even on the hard days. I notice. My kids notice. Mom and John Michael would be proud. 

I love you more. xoxox

Mourning on Mother's Day

Sitting in the quiet of a sleeping house, I woke to my first Mother's Day without you. There is no fan fare, gift given, food made, that will ever replace the ache that is in my heart without you here. As fate would have it,  I am sick again. There would be nothing that would have kept you away. You would have arrived, home made soup in hand, and just sat with me for awhile. We would have watched a movie. Remember how we were supposed to see, Book Club 2? Well, it's out now. You were so good at showing up and you always chose us. Your presence, such a comforting gift. The only one I really ever needed.

I can see now, some of the things that made you "you," are some of the qualities that I will spend the rest of my life trying to emulate. Bits and pieces of your vivaciousness, your generosity, your laughter, your light. These are the gifts I will carry tucked away in my heart, and hopefully given away to the world. I am only me because of you.

It is lonely here without you. No one seems to care, love, or know me in the same way you did. I carry this grief around like a second layer of skin. It is always with me and I desperately want to shed it. I want to only think of you with that joy that you so beautifully exuded. I want to laugh a little louder, love a little larger, and live a life that you would continue to be proud of. 

I will think of you as we celebrate with our favorite brunch foods this morning. Anjalene did everything herself, without being asked. It was her idea to celebrate in the same way we usually did. I will miss your large laugh as we toasted the morning away with mimosas in hand. Janessa, your mini me, will say and do things that will give me pause as I see so much of you in her. I will appreciate these glimpses and proudly let her be herself. She is growing so confident and secure in her own skin. She definitely gets that from you! Jonathan, will quietly miss you in his own way, his saddness tucked away in the recesses of his heart. He will keep working and doing just like you did because, "That's what Grandma would do," he'd say. He would be right. Anthony will probably work and stop by late or on another day, and you'd tell me, "He'll come back. He knows where his place to land is." You, of course, would be right...just like you were with Little. Ernie will make me laugh as he often does retelling the best stories of you. You spent so much time with us, there are plenty, and one day I will write them down so my kids will know their great grandma too.

I hate doing this life without you. I wish we had more time. We were so different, but so the same if that is even possible. There is this tiny bit of peace that you have John Michael to celebrate with you, and then my heart breaks all over again because I just can't fathom he is gone too.

"Enough tears," you would say. The kids will be up soon. They need me. Just as we were your why; they are mine. There is food to eat, stories to tell, life to live, and I am here to live it.  Happy Heavenly Mother's Day, Mom.

Love you forever; I'll miss you for always.

Easter 2023

He is risen! Stay risen!

It's in the darkest hour when your thoughts catch up with you. I've been awake since three am. I didn't even try to go back to sleep. Instead, I've been reading these snippets of a life that seems forever ago. I hope one day these blog posts serve as a reminder to my kids of the good life we have been fortunate enough to live.  Maybe it is in this season of mourning that these memories are especially comforting. They remind me,  that was before. This is now.

We just celebrated our first Easter without my mom and brother. To be honest, we have not typically celebrated Easter together since my parent's divorce five years ago so it didn't feel  that  different. I remember the first Easter after they separated and knew being together would be too hard for us, so we began to visit and stay with E's family out of state. It was the one holiday, I told my Mom we had to have with his family. She understood. This year we actually were on a camp trip to wind down multiple conflicting spring breaks. It was good for my senses to be out in nature. I love the beach. My brother loved the beach too. My mom, not so much. . .but she was a good sport about it. The sunrises and sunsets were painted masterpieces across the sky that I needed to see: God's glory in full effect during Holy Week.

We went to church later than usual. We ate dinner with my Dad and Anthony, texted with our oldest and his wife. Lene and I visited Uncle Craig because I know my Mom would have. I missed seeing all the cousins together, but I was right where I needed to be. I'm in a season that needs to figure out what I need. I am missing the people who I shared the most life with. I am giving myself permission to be where I need to be. I am giving myself permission to be who I need to be. I am asking questions that need to be asked as I'm on the rounding up to fifty spectrum. We are making plans just in case, because. . .we've experienced tragedy and then tragedy again. We can never be too prepared.

It's four am. I go to the gym at 5:30. I work at 7:45. In this quiet moment, thoughts of my past bring me comfort and joy. Grief is lonely, even when you are blessed with the most incredible friends, you feel alone in your struggles. Grief and joy, such conflicting emotions as a son readies to turn 18 and graduate. Life keeps moving forward. Ready or not. What is it I want most? Where do I want to go? How do I want to live? These are the questions my three am brain yearns to answer. This post is all over the place. . .kind of like my sleepy three am brain, I guess.

Easter 2023

Uncle Craig: Easter 2023

For Such a Time as This

Cocooning is a natural part of grieving for me. Pulling in my immediate family within the confines of my four walls, loving on them, leaning with them, all of us learning to do life in a way that is drastically different. The noise of the outside world too chaotic at times for me to partake. I know I need to preserve my energy and plan days with nothing but white around the edges. A long time ago, when all the kids were younger, balance felt so hard. Now it feels as normal as breathing. Yes, if I want to; No, if I don't. There are no apologies for this season of rest. Focusing on my mental and physical health is a necessity for such a time as this.

Putting up boundaries, no longer putting out fires, simply cherishing the every day life that we are blessed to live is my present. The truth is, when it is all said and done, your immediate family is all that you have. Luckily for me, we have poured in to each other and we are open to the shifting seasons. With an adult son grown, two in college, and one about to start, it makes sense to be available when they are, to make plans with them in it and to simply be together. Everyone's schedule is different now. We have jobs and school, but sitting around the table and story telling is important enought that we have reinstated Sunday family dinners. I will often try a recipe from the gazillion my mom collected. The keepers will go in to the family cookbook. The others, I am not afraid to throw away. Memory making one meal at a time. My mom would like this new tradition.

Adventuring has taken on a new meaning as well. We have five trips planned over the next seven months. These trips give something for us to look forward to. They are planned well in advance so the older kids can ask for time off if they want to, but they are small treasure troves of adventuring with which we will make the best new memories regardless of who is there. 

Every day at two pm, my alarm goes off. There is a quote I refer to daily, that reminds me, " That was before. This is now." A lot of days there's a battle going on in my mind for what it used to look and feel like and what it actually does. This little dose of reality calls a truce in my brain. What it was versus what it is. I am learning to accept it.

In a lot of ways, memories of my early childhood with my brother have mostly brought me joy. I mean, there was that one time he called 911 and chased me with a butter knife, but he was my first friend. And although we were opposites like water and oil, there was an unmistakeable protectiveness about him, an annoyance that he always wanted to play with me and my neighborhood friends, an admiration for his ease in talking to all those he met. He was my entire childhood. Good, bad, and everything in between, there is no one that I have that in common with. He is not here to share those stories, to make the new memories as the adults we are now with kids who are growing up. The next chapter was starting and now it's finished before it even began.

There is deep saddness when one realizes that I am the keeper of our childhood stories. There is no longer my person to banter back and forth with ease in the story telling. There is no one who knows the highest of highs and the lowest of lows that were experienced in our childhood home together. My brothers take on the entirety of our growing up years is just gone. That alone makes me want to write our Durango Dukes adventures to share with a new generation. Perhaps my next chapter will include that. Not sure. I'm simply journaling through this experience of loss. Healing my heart, one post at a time.

Dear Mom

 Dear Mom,

You're my mom and I love you so much. True. You're my mom and I know you loved me so much. True. But it's the every day "you" stuff that I miss so dang badly. The way when you called or I called you, your opening liner was generally the same, "What do you know?" It always had a sing-songy cadence to it. I wish I appreciated the way you gave a play by play of your day to me. God, you always accomplished so much! Sometimes it was annoying to hear who you helped or how you helped because honestly, it made me reflect on myself and whether I was using my God given gifts to serve like you were. A lot of days I needed your help carting four kids around or cheering from the sidelines. Anything I needed to do, you were always willing. Urgent care? You would take me. Target? You'd go for me. A museum iwth the kids? Why not? You were always ready for anything!

If myself or the kids needed anything at all, most times you had it. If you didn't have it, you went out and found it. You loved a good challenge! How many whirly-pop things did you actually find for people at the thrift stores? You were so damn generous! You were such a thoughtful, quality human being that it physically hurts that you are not still here. We never recorded your answers to that book you went through with Grandma and Grandpa and transcribed. I know the ins and outs of their lives, but never took enough time to lean in, listen, and learn about yours. That hurts my heart. I don't know how to parent adult children yet. I still need you, yet you're gone. In an instant, you were gone from this life and living in eternal life. 

To add to the pain, John Michael isn't here to make inappropriate jokes and make me laugh through my tears or recall memories of our childhood together. Everything in my world got so much harder October.  1st and even harder on October 25th. To be honest, I can't even ask God, why? Because all I hear in my head from Maria's podcast is your voice saying, "Why not me?" I know better than to question God's plan. I do. I know for certain, one day we will be together again. I do. But today? Today I miss seeing your white Prius pull up at the curb, calling me to run out for some random drop off you were bringing me. Today without you, sick at home, I miss your homemade soups. I don't think you ever made a single one that I didn't like and I haven't found a single recipe for one. 

Today and every day since you've been gone, I miss you. 

Love you forever; Miss you for always.

Something Lost, I'll Never Get Back

Once, thirty years ago, I lost something that was mine, but it never actually belonged to me. When I was sixteen years old, my Nana passed away suddenly. With her death, the first of someone I loved so much, came the sudden shifting of all our family dynamics. It was a slow and steady unraveling of the family I knew and loved. As a little girl, I spent many hours with my Nana. There are memories of songs she would sing to me, records played on the player, trips to the bank, and breakfast around the circular wooden table in the kitchen. There were also days she stayed in bed, television playing her soap operas as she battled with a sad blanket she couldn't shake. I spent time with her doing my hair in her bathroom. I secretly put on her lipstick and admired myself in the the mirror. Sometimes she would let me put her ring on my finger. It would slip as it was too big, but I would dangle it to show her and she would smile and laugh, telling me one day it would be mine. I believed her.

But when she died, her only daughter took the ring telling me when I was eighteen, and then when I was twenty-one it would be mine. I believed her. However, those milestones passed and the ring was never handed down to me. Our once close relationship dead. The damage done with broken promises, and pain inflicted on my young fragile heart. I lost my Nana. I lost her ring. I lost my Aunt. I lost my cousins. All gone forever, because although I let the hostility go, I chose to protect my heart. She will never hurt me again, because I choose not to let her. 

The only person who ever had my back completely was my Mom. My Mom chose me. She always chose me. Time and time again, she chose to acknowledge my pain, to validate it and to let me do what I needed to do. She didn't pressure me to, "forgive and forget." She left me to my own devices and simply sat with me. Perhaps because of this we were able to go forward.  There has never been hate in my heart, but there is definitley space and solitude with that woman compared to what may have been. I am okay with that.

God has been so good to me. Despite the losses, there have been abundant blessings and gains. I lost more than a ring and I'll never get any of it back again. Forgiveness was for me, not for her. 

A Lesson I learned the Hard Way

A lesson I've learned the hard way is that you may not have the time you think you do with the people you love. I watched it happen in other families, someone died suddenly, but I never really understood the gravity of that statement until it touched me directly in such a devastating way. To have this type of loss so close together has been life changing. Losing my mom and brother so quickly left absolutely no time for the type of good byes or acceptance I had, I guess, imagined. To lose a mom and brother twenty-four days apart in such tragic ways has changed how I look at life. It has caused regrets. My mom always talked of having none...but I wonder how that is, because gosh I sure have them!

I am learning to say yes more often.  

I am learning to make the effort, do the thing, love the people.

I am learning to ask the questions, have the conversations, make the peace.

I am learning that there really are no do overs.

I am learning that all that petty stuff never mattered.

I am learning that God's plans make no sense to me, but He is going to make them regardless.

I am learning to let people be who they are and love them regardless.

I am learning that self preservation is okay and protecting my peace is crucial.

I am learning to do better.

I am learning to be better.

Papa

Our papa may have been a man of few words, but his life was a living example to us.  He was a doer by nature. He was  a hard worker both on the job and at home.   

He was busy doing dishes, or sweeping floors, doing yardwork, piddling away in the garage, or taking us out on cardboard hunts. The station wagon, a back yard perfect to get lost in, and a bar with slippery floors for spinning were a kid’s delight.  Growing up, his bark was way bigger than his bite. He teased us, he gave heavy handed birthday spankings and if you passed by him too closely, you might get a, “skeetz. . .”  

Papa was present in all the moments that mattered most to us.  I remember fondly the day I gave birth to Anjalene, his first great grand-daughter, named in part for his love, Angela.  He sat in the waiting room until after midnight to welcome her into this world. And my brothers would agree, he was at birthday parties, games, confirmations, graduations, weddings, and births until his knees started slowing  him down.  Alan and I will always have the memory of vacationing in Hawaii with him.  Seeing Pearl Harbor after years of hearing his war stories was a moment we won’t soon forget. There were always stories of serving in Italy with John Wayne told time after time. Papa’s love of westerns ran deep and were often playing when we stopped by for a visit. It was easy to get lost in a “shoot em up cowboy” movie with him. 

But in the end, it wasn’t Papa’s service that made him one of the bravest men we knew. At 91, he  willingly and confidently stared death eye to eye day in and day out over the last couple of years.  Bravery became waking up each day and still being here, despite a set of knees that were becoming increasingly uncooperative and were limiting his ability to get out and socialize. To be brave is to confidently know where we are going when this life is over, palms uplifted, to offer ourselves as the sacrifice.  That is bravery.  And there he was, glasses on, prayer book in place, rosary in hands: praying.  His very life had become a living prayer.

His body ached and the only thing that probably brought any type of real joy to his confined life the last four months was the hope of heaven.   We didn't see fear when we looked into his eyes. There was  a peace about him because he knew what awaits.  He knew there would be a grand reception and his soul would be set free from the body that was failing him in his old age.   He was ready.  He wanted to be called home.  He wanted God to usher him into the promised land. 

So from bed, he prayed diligently.  He prayed with a steadfastness and conviction that only comes from knowing and believing in our God.  He didn’t fear his death.  He welcomed it.  And that brings us comfort. . . that God would guide papa to the ultimate peace, the peace we have looked for our entire lives, but could not be found until our final moment on this earth.  His homecoming, surrounded by all of our love and prayers, was a beautiful moment.

The last words he spoke to me mid-week when I asked, “How are you?” was his traditional response, only this time whispered, “Still here.”  It was in that moment that his answer became the window into his soul.  He had poured into our lives in his own silent, strong way since the day of our births.  The power and depth of his words weren’t lost on me.  He will always be here, in our hearts for as long as we live and his legacy will be his love.

My therapy

Every day I wake up and for a moment, I forget. I forget they are both gone. I forget that the landscape of my family will never be the same again. And I have a choice to make, do I get up and do better than the day before or do I lie there in my sorrow? There is a piece of me that wants to lie there in sorrow; however, a bigger piece of me (ever so logical) knows there is nothing to do BUT get up. I have a husband to love on, children to raise, a job to do. I get out of bed and listen to The Bible in a Year. This is my therapy.

I head to the gym to meet a friend who meets me there four days a week. She is my therapy. 

Moving my body is my therapy. 

Counting my daily blessings in a gratitude journal is my therapy. 

Talking to my therapist is my therapy. 

Journaling is my therapy. 

Gathering with my friends is my therapy. 

Hiking in the great outdoors is my therapy. 

Going to church and worshiping God is my therapy. 

Reading books about grief, anxiety, wonder, and worry. . .is my therapy. 

Doing the things my mom and brother can no longer do is my therapy. 

Living is my therapy.

John Michael

Grief has this way of sneaking up on you. There is nothing linear about it. In the weeks after I started taking baby steps out in to the world again, I would find myself confused by the world around me. How did it go on? Didn't anyone know I just lost my Mom? I was viewing all things through glass. Nothing was clear. I wasn't an active participant. In the days following her funeral, my body was depleted. She gave out on me and I finally let myself succumb to the sickness and all I wanted was for her white Prius to pull up with a home made soup delivery. It didn't matter what kind, all of her soups were winners, and I never took the time to learn how. I always assumed we had more time. . .and then we didn't.

My birthday was six days after she passed away. I woke up to the smell of smoke which I automatically assumed was her barbecue. It flickered comfort for a second. I also hadn't listened to my voice mails, hoping I had one of her singing Happy Birthday to me. I always tried to answer those calls. If she wasn't the first call of the day, I was disappointed. I had come to expect the woman who brought me into the world, would also sing and welcome me to the gift of another year first and foremost. I cried my eyes out when the very first message I played was her singing. While family and friends showed up that night to celebrate, it is a blur. 

Twenty-four days later, I would venture out to a friend's house to celebrate with an intimate dinner with five of my friends from church. I had Ernie drop me off that night. Driving took energy I didn't want to waste. I remember I walked through her door, and the candles were lit, the food smelled delicious, the environment was warm and calming. I had an instant feeling of relief instead of anxiety. This felt almost normal. I felt so loved. My friends were arriving. There were hugs and check ins with each other, and then my phone rang. It had barely been a few minutes since I was dropped off, but my husband was calling, so I answered it.

He told me that he didn't want me to worry, and immediately my heart dropped. My voice raised. My friend's voices got quiet as everyone watched me. I remember that clearly. I think someone put their hands on my back. All I know is my hands were on my mouth, as my husband told me my 44-year-old brother who had taken his boys on a hunting trip had been in an accident. I was trying to remember to breathe. I wanted to go home, but he told me I was in the best place and to stay and pray. We did. I remember clearly thinking, "There is no way God would do this to my family." I then called my sister in law who was crying, but who also told me my brother was moving and talking, and I know I felt some peace. He was going to be okay. I just knew it. We sat around the table, I tried to eat. We talked a bit...about what I can not even remember. But then the hosts face changed as she noticed someone coming up to the door. She asked if we were expecting anyone.

It was my husband, and I knew in my heart before he even said, "We had to go." I don't remember if I crumpled under the weight of his words, but even today it still feels like it, so I expect I did. I could not cry. My friends cried for me. I could not breathe. I fell apart. I could not comprehend that this could even happen. How in only twenty-four days did my life as I knew it, cease to exist?  My brother, my first friend.  Polar opposites, but the only one who shared our growing up experience with me. Simply gone.