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.

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.

If Only. . .

If I want to write, I have to write. . .even if it means I have nothing to write about. With the ending of 2022, it would appear I have much to write, but just as I felt I was experiencing life in a fog like vapor, the night she passed away, the fog hasn't lifted. . .yet. I am however plotting my course, digging into the tools that provide me with the roadmap to dissect my grief, deal with it, and move through it, albeit slowly. The bible, my gratitude journal, therapy-these are the tools I tuck away in my tool box that I carry with me around the clock now. These tools are my safety net in a world that feels anything but.

Going back to that night, October 1st isn't something I am ready to do. My hands start to shake, my heart races, the dread of that night returns with just a thought. A single flicker is all it takes to take me backwards, and I am determined to heal whole. My husband and kids deserve the best parts of me, not a shell of the person I was before mom died. Looking back, I was already moved out of the house when my mom's mom died. Her struggle with cancer was swift. My grandma knew what she was saying yes to when she refused treatment and six weeks later, December 27th she went home to heaven. Even the night before she died, my memories of my mom losing her mom were stoic. She did all the things a loving caregiver would do. They had said all that needed to be said. There was a very evident peace between them. I remember so clearly crawling on to my grandma's bed reading aloud from, Love You Forever,  by Robert Munsch. I choked through the ending bringing both my mom and I to tears. It was a moment I will treasure forever. Three generations on one bed, together one last time. I always envisioned having the long good bye with my Mom. I was so very, very wrong.

My mom is one of the strongest women I have ever known, especially in the area of caregiving. She cared for both her parents and father in law up until their deaths. The emotional and physical toll that would have on her body was not evident at first. There were many times  in her life that I would watch her and think to myself, "I could never. . ." I actually feared her getting older because of the responsibilities that might one day come. She would joke back, "That's why we have long term health care," and that crutch made me feel a little bit better.  I have always known what a gift her level of care was, but now I see how she willingly sacrificed pieces of herself to care for each of our loved ones. 

As much as I envisioned the long good bye, maybe it simply wasn't long enough because in some ways I guess I had it. I just didn't realize that is what it was. Shortly after losing her dad in 2004, my Mom was diagnosed with stage three breast cancer. I was pregnant with my second child at twenty-nine years old. I remember clearly calling out to the Lord to save my Mom, to heal her, and give us all the gift of more time. At barely fifty-one years old, having cared for and losing both her parents, working in the dark environment of a prison, and a marriage that was struggling, I wanted her to experience joy and the fullness of life that I thought she deserved. Selfishly, I needed her here. My kids needed to know her love as their grandma because there would be nothing else like it. She went on to survive cancer, but the journey was an arduous one, and the fear of its return was always tucked away in the back of her mind. She never wanted to endure a cancer journey again. This we did talk about from time to time. We received seventeen extra years: years that would bring about the things of life: Love, saddness, divorce, change, and lastly growth.

If only I had known that day would be her last.

If only I had asked all the questions.

If only I had fully appreciated who she was in life.

If only I could hear that laugh and see her smile again.

If only. . .

If only. . .

If only. . .

Summer Mourning

Our new favorite quiet time activity.

Life in between our four walls is seemingly good, quiet bursts of busy followed by gaps of rest.  It feels like summer at its finest.  There are little glimmers of the brokenness that surrounds us with outside influences and forces, but life for the most part is well.  I am such a feeler.  I feel all the emotions all the time and this summer has been no exception.  My littlest one is growing up right before my very eyes and there have been so many lasts already: last first tooth, last time needing her floaties, last time learning to ride a bike. . .it has been quite the adventure!

And yet, sometimes in the quiet I mourn what our extended family used to look like.  I mourn the loss of E's parents, although here physically, their minds are broken.  I mourn the relationships I've watched wither and die.  I mourn those I know living lives that are unauthentic and lack joy.  I mourn these things yet I have so much hope for our future.  How could that possibly be?  My hope in God erases all the brokenness.  It reminds me that one day all my tears will be turned into dancing.  He has taught me not to sacrifice my confidence on the altar of comparison.  He has made me believe that He is all I need.  And I do.

Our gallery wall grew with handmade creations this summer: brave and hope.

Sometimes I have no words to write because I am so caught up in the emotions this summer.  I'm all in for the first time in a long time.  There has been no preoccupied mind needing to make summer workshops, or teacher planning meetings, or set up a classroom.  Those days of teaching are done and I am one hundred percent fully okay with that.  I found my passion: my family.  They give me purpose and that is enough.  No, I'm not going back to work full time just because I have a kindergartener.  I teach around my kitchen table. Seven children whom I have grown to love.  I get excited on my teaching day.  The hour flies by and I am filled with joy because I get to do this: to stay home with my littles and work just enough to practice what I know I am good at.  Life is beautiful.  Like I said before, what happens in between these four walls is pretty amazing.