Posts Tagged motherloss

Part 2 of 3 – Christmas Past, Present & Future

December 8, 2009 at 9:28 pm · Filed under Uncategorized ·Tagged , , ,

*Scroll down for Part 1 of 3.

It’s a weird place in which I find myself these days. I’m relieved, but worried, but not too worried about our financial well-being. I’m missing my mother (always), but I find myself enjoying Christmas for the first time in three years. I actually went Christmas shopping. Yep, the Grinch came out of her cave and walked into an actual store & purchased actual Christmas gifts. Without snarling or cursing even one time.  The Christmas shit everywhere isn’t making me angry & bitter this year…. Bobby and I put up a tree, and I’ve decorated our mantel & dining room table, and am typing right this minute by the light of our lovely Christmas tree.

Why the change, you (& Bobby) ask? When Sue was home for Thanksgiving, she said something that pierced my little Grinchy heart — that one of the things she hates most about Christmas is going to her friends’ houses, where there are lots of gifts under the tree and she’s reminded of how much our family has lost/is losing. As obvious as it may seem, I suddenly realized that Sue is still a child in lots of ways. While I genuinely don’t miss the Christmas gifts, she DOES. Light-bulb moment. So this year, Sue’s gonna have gifts under the tree. Not expensive gifts, or big, earth-shattering gifts, but she’s going to have presents to open on Christmas morning. Cancer has taken enough of her childhood — it’s not going to continue to make trips to her “normal” friends’ houses more painful than they have to be.

Generally speaking, the holidays make me feel even less normal than usual. The commercials, the cheeriness, the happy family talk… there’s an implied pressure to feel & act a certain way. It’s easy to see why people become (more) depressed during the holiday season. Which is why I openly declared my Grinchiness during Christmas 2007 (much to the dismay of my then-coworkers). Sometimes it just takes too much effort to pretend.

I was in a very dark place this time two years ago (click here for post). A very, very dark place. If nothing else, this blog has helped document the fact that I am indeed improving.

And although I’m noticeably less bitter this year, it’s still hard. I don’t think Christmas will ever not be hard. Yesterday, I subbed with a lady who’s about Mama’s age. She was chattering about her children, her new grandbaby that’s on the way, shopping for their gifts, going to the Christmas parade, how much she’s looking forward to having them all at her house on Christmas Eve. It’s hard, ya’ll. It’s hard to listen with a neutral, interested expression on my face, and act like her words aren’t causing me pain. Listening to her talk is a glimpse into what would have been, and I find myself shying away from letting my brain go down that path. There’s no point in even thinking about how it would have been. There’s no point. So I smile & nod & try not to let her words go beyond my ears into my brain.

I can say that from where I am this very minute, Christmas Present resembles what the “new normal” will be more closely than 2006, 07, or 08 did. Finding a new normal isn’t something that happens in one year or even two years… I remember people talking about “the new normal” like it’s a destination to be reached, which is completely misleading. It’s year three, and I’m just now beginning to see a glimpse of Christmas Future.

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thankful-ish

November 24, 2009 at 10:42 am · Filed under Uncategorized ·Tagged , ,

Thanksgiving without my mother is different. Really, really different. Dinner’s at my house instead of Mama & Daddy’s. I’m making the grocery list & cooking instead of arriving just in time to help. We’re using a sweet potato souffle recipe written in Mama’s small, neat handwriting, and trying not to think too much about it because tears in the sweet potato souffle just don’t work.

We have Thanksgiving Past on video. Everyone laughing in my parents’ kitchen. Mama fixing the turkey and laughing about it being on videotape, because it’s just one of those things that seems too insignificant to record at the time. She looks at the camera with her big smile, and says “Yep, you can watch this when I’m dead and gone.” and breaks into her signature laugh. It would be funny if it weren’t just a little too true.

I have things to be thankful for, I do. I’m thankful that Sue’s coming home tonight. I’m thankful for my & Bobby’s marriage — that we’ve been able to sit down and begin to figure out this unemployment thing together. I’m thankful for my lovely house.. it IS my happy place, and not a day goes by that I don’t actively love it. I’m thankful for my sisters — it’s hard to imagine how this motherless Thanksgiving would be without them. I’m thankful for my two beautiful nieces, because their mere existence makes every occasion happier and more entertaining and more family-centered. No matter how distant our islands become — mine, Sue’s, Jennifer’s, & Daddy’s — we have our love for Maggie & Sadie as a common thread. I’m thankful for those home videos of Thanksgiving Past — the word “priceless” doesn’t even begin to describe their value. I’m thankful for my mother — she’s not here now, but I had 29 years with her, and for that I’m thankful.

I miss her, I do. Her absence is in everything — every plan, every menu, every moment has an empty, aching hole that she left. If someone had told me that you can still feel the urge to call someone two years & two months after you last talked to them, I’m not sure I would have believed them. But it’s very, regrettably true.

So off I go to do Thanksgiving Present in a new and motherless way. As strange as it sounds, it’s sometimes still so difficult to believe that this is real. It feels like 50 years since I’ve called her & heard her voice say “hello” on the other end, but it also feels like only maybe a week or so. There’s a new sense of time when you’ve lost someone who was a part of your everyday life — days can feel like weeks or minutes. Confusing, but also comforting… I’ll bet that’s what heaven’s like, but without the pain of missing.

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a separate identity

October 3, 2009 at 9:06 am · Filed under Uncategorized ·Tagged , , ,

There are many stupid things that people have said (and continue to say) to me after Mama died… things like “everything happens for a reason,” “God never gives us more than we can handle” (for a full-fledged rant on this one, click here), and “Now your mama is your guardian angel.” There’s one in particular, though, that actually has proven to be appropriate…  “something good will come of this.”  This one’s especially hard to hear when your hurt and loss is still so open and raw. Something good coming from this gaping hole that used to be me? Um, I don’t think so.

But now, two years later, I find myself thinking that amazingly enough, a few of those platitude-spewing people were right on the money.

Here’s the thing. I do NOT think that God took my mother for a reason. I don’t think that God took my mother at all. Cancer took my mother. But when things go awry (as is always the case with cancer), positive changes can result eventually. EVENTUALLY, not immediately. It took me two years + two weeks to even see this small glimmer.

The glimmer is this — losing my mother has allowed me to become a person that I wouldn’t have been otherwise.

During a conversation with my sister last night (our first in months), she said, “Mama made us alike.”

And she’s right. Mama did. It wasn’t like she forced us, or insisted… no, not at all. It’s just that my mother’s presence was so strong, so passionate, that we adjusted to allow for the huge force that she was. She gave us a moral value system and a sense of home. But what she DIDN’T give us was options. We, mostly Jennifer & I, parroted so many of her views and her perceptions, and we really, truly THOUGHT they were our views and perceptions.

This is not to say that my mother was a dictator or overbearing or a bad mom. She was the polar opposite. What I’m talking about is common among many mothers & daughters I know. She teaches you how to keep a tidy house. She teaches you to wash your hair and shave your legs. She teaches you what’s right and wrong. And her own perceptions & ideas get all mixed up in that, so that you become, in a sense, a mirror of her. How many times have we thought or said some version of this thought: “My mama’s way is the right way”? I think that’s why many women find their mother-in-laws oppressive… because they’re NOT our mother. When we hit college, we branch out on some topics like politics, religion, or we might even date someone our mothers don’t approve of just to assert our independence. But underneath, the voice of our mothers are still there, throwing in their $0.2 on every single decision.

Then my mother died, and I had to learn how to be a separate identity. It’s something I would have never, ever chosen, but it wasn’t optional. Is this separate identity an altogether new creation? Or is it a version of myself that was always inside, and I just had no reason or inclination to let her come to the surface? Probably a combination of the two.

My separate identity has pierced ears.

She never goes home to Townville. Why? Because she doesn’t want to.  Mama’s not there, so why bother?

She learns cooking, and sewing, and countless other household tasks from the internet because there’s no mother here to teach her the “right” way to do it.

She has joined a church, which she would not have done if her mother was still here, and she is becoming more and more active with that church & its people.

She doesn’t go shopping anymore because her shopping buddy isn’t here, and she doesn’t even miss it (the shopping, not the buddy).

She is more independent, and becoming more so everyday.

Validation from family is no longer a necessary step in her decision-making process.

She now understands the concept of grace, and knows that following the rules of legalism actually has no impact on her spiritual outcome — thus the meaning of grace.

My separate identity is also more cynical, less compassionate, and more out-spoken.

She’s smarter than the old Sarah, and I respect her more because she had to go through hell to get here.

I no longer have the option of being my Mama’s little girl. I miss it every single day. I don’t think there will ever be a time that there’s not a lost little girl inside crying for her mother. But I’m finally – FINALLY – starting to see a glimmer of the good that’s happening because of this tragedy.

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coping

September 23, 2009 at 7:29 am · Filed under Uncategorized ·Tagged , ,

Relieved to say I have the two-year anniversary behind me. The day itself was spent just being sad — looking through my Mama box, acknowledging the loss. I haven’t done that in a while… I’ve gotten really good at slamming the door on thoughts that are too painful. But Thursday, I let them in. Cried and cried until I ran out of tears, under the covers with one of Mama’s nightgowns. There’s physical pain when you go to that place, like your heart is actually, physically ripping.

That evening, I went back to a message board called “Motherless Daughters” that I hadn’t frequented in a while. I found that, amazingly enough, I actually HAVE progressed. There were newcomers to the group, who were only two, seven, ten weeks out from their mothers’ deaths. For the first time, I was able to articulate my own path in order to make someone else feel less alone. There’s something very comforting about being told that you’re normal, even though you feel anything but. I remember being that “new” girl, feeling like there really was no point in waking up tomorrow, feeling so completely broken, so utterly alone.

There’s a tinge of guilt to all of this, looking at the calendar and knowing that I’ve gone two years without my mother. I haven’t spoken to her once in two years. I haven’t heard her voice, or answered a phone call from her in two years. 760+ days. It seems impossible. She was such a part of my identity, my everyday life. It’s difficult to comprehend that I’ve just gone on living without her.

I’m reading “Motherless Daughters” by Hope Edelman again. The first time I tried, it was too fresh and I was too angry. But now, it’s clicking.

Last night at my GriefShare group, I talked about counting down the hours and minutes until Mama’s death. As soon as the calendar hits September 1st, the countdown begins. “Two years ago, I was _____,” and “two years ago, Mama was _____.” A lady in my group, whose teenage daughter was killed in a car accident almost four years ago, told me that the countdown would fade away eventually.

I have mixed feelings about that. As painful as the countdown is, it keeps me close to Mama.

Oh, and I need to add a credit here: The “after” picture in this post was taken by Tiffiney, an incredibly talented photographer, mother of sweet, tiny Sadie Mae, and a beautiful, compassionate person. Click here for her blog.

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September 17th

September 23, 2009 at 6:42 am · Filed under Uncategorized ·Tagged , ,

I sit here surrounded by the contents of my “Mama Box” — a beautiful box that I’ve stuffed anything death- or cancer-related. I’ve never gone through the box… today is the first time. I’ve only opened it just wide enough to slide a new memento in.

There are sympathy cards that I read for the first time today. Some are generic and simple, some contain hand-written condolences, some even include stories. My favorite card came several months after Mama’s death from one of her best friends. It’s a long, chatty recounting of what Mama’s friendship meant (and means) to her — the trinkets that Mama bought her over the years, the shopping trips they went on, the first time they met, when this sweet lady thought, “She has great friendship potential.”

There are cd’s of MRI’s and CT scans from three difference cancer centers… we were so determined to find someone who would give us hope. There are lab reports — the final one, dated Aug 13, 2007, says “Evidence of extensive progression of metastatic disease involving the lungs, liver, and bones diffusely.” And that was a week before they found it in her brain as well.

There are leftover invitations to Mama’s 50 birthday party in April 2007. We had to have it early because we were going to Duke’s Cancer Center on her actual 50th birthday, on May 1.There are a few pictures of that day — she’s wearing her favorite pink dress, the one we chose to bury her in, the one her body is still wearing in the cemetery of Town.ville Bap.tist Church.

There’s a pink enamel butterfly pin that Jennifer and I bought her in the Duke Cancer Center gift shop. It became a favorite, and she wore it on her linen dresses often during the following months.

There’s the luminary bag that I decorated for the 2005 Relay for Life in Charlotte, NC, when we thought cancer was behind us. It reads, “In Honor of Denise. We’re so proud of you, Mama! Love, Sarah, Jennifer, & Susanna” She was so, so proud when she participated in the Survivor Lap, and we watched her walked by and cheered.

There’s a silver charm from Jennifer’s wedding in 2006. At her bridal luncheon, we did a “charm cake” where each attendant has a charm with a fortune attached to it. I did all the charms except my own, which Mama said she would take care of so that it would be a surprise. Mine is a tiny baby carriage, with the attached fortune: “A Baby Carriage for Sarah. A baby carriage is coming your way with a sweet little bundle to light up your day…”  So much pain and regret I have that I waited to start this baby process.

There are pink ribbon items, so many I can’t count. Bracelets and pins, all with the pink ribbon. People wanted to show support, to show that they were thinking about me. They didn’t know that the pink ribbon makes me want to vomit.

There’s a program from her funeral, along with the beautifully haunting pictures that Tiffiney took. It seemed like we put so much time into that program, selecting the perfect poem, the perfect hymns, the perfect people to be a part of the service. Yet I realize now that it was only a few hours during those blurry days from Sept 17 to Sept 20th, when the funeral took place.

There are notes written in Bobby’s handwriting… people to call, phone numbers, his contacts at the funeral home. I didn’t realize how much Bobby did during those wretched days.

There’s a pretty fabric-bound journal. On the inside cover is Mama’s neat, small handwriting. It’s dated Dec 12, 2006, just a few days after we received a prognosis of 18 months to 3 years. It says:

Sarah, who I’ve loved the longest,
We ARE thankful for the time we have been given — and will receive! We have incredible happiness in our futures. “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.”
I love you with all my heart!
Mama

Wrapped in a piece of white tissue paper are her eyeglasses. We kept them instead of sending them down into the ground with her body.

There are hand-drawn sketches of her gravestone that I did to show the gravestone guy.

And the business cards of oncologists, and triage nurses, and office staff.

A copy of her online obituary.

A copy of the FMLA paperwork so that I could take medical leave after the brain metastasis diagnosis.

Her toothbrush that I kept at my house with her name on it.

And there’s a children’s book called “Someday.” We found three copies in her room afterward, and knew that she meant them for us. If you have a daughter, you should consider buying this book for her. It’s lovely.

I hope to read it to my own daughter one day.

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Two years ago today

September 17, 2009 at 11:47 am · Filed under Uncategorized ·Tagged , ,

Before September 17, 2007:

family in charleston copy

After September 17, 2007:

IMG_5787-crop

Sometimes it seems like more than I can bear.

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i hate september

September 13, 2009 at 9:18 am · Filed under Uncategorized ·Tagged , , ,

Does anyone else ever look around and think “Is this really my life? How did I get here?” I don’t really mean that in a negative way… just more of a pondering sort of way. I feel surprised sometimes — even though I know I’ve been here the whole time, it occasionally often feels like where I am now just snuck up on me.

September weighs heavily. Every day becomes a mental montage of “this day two years ago, [fill in blank here].” There’s a feeling of disbelief. HOW can I still be here, still be breathing and functioning normally, two years after losing Mama? It feels like a betrayal of her, like she wasn’t as important as she should have been, if I can live two years without her. This is permanent. This is real. She’s really gone. And today a year from now, I’ll be saying “it’s been three years.”  And then five years, and then 12, and then 18. And she’ll become dimmer and more abstract, part of my past with no place in the future. I wish I could drag my feet and make time move slower — every day that passes puts me farther away from her.

She’s so far away now. I can’t remember the last time I felt her presence. I wonder if she thinks of me as often as I think of her. Somehow, I doubt it.

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control-freak? who, me?

August 11, 2009 at 12:24 am · Filed under Uncategorized ·Tagged , , ,

Please pardon me while I spaz. It’s not pretty, but it’s either this or lie wide-awake next to a snoring Bobby for another hour, and that, I just can’t take.

After last night’s conversation, I was awake until 6am. That’s just plain ridiculous, especially for a girl who can sleep through most anything. I’ve found that of the Big Three — grieving the loss of my mother, infertility, & TheChurch — that the little religious buggers are the most incompatible with sleep. Must learn the simple art of compartmentalizing. I feel shaken to the core, and I haven’t quite figured out how to just let it go and resume the tasks of normal living. Perhaps a (large) glass of red wine and a refill of sleep meds are in order?

I’m really hoping that a year from now, I’ll be able to look back and say “wow, Sarah, you were an exhausting pain in the ass, but you finally plowed through all that crap. Got that outta the way.” Now wouldn’t that be nice.

There’s just no RESOLUTION to any of this. There’s no fix, and it’s overwhelming and frustrating and just plain aggravating as hell.

Major Issue #1: I feel lost without Mama. I know I sound like a broken record, but I just miss her so damn much. Every day. I continue to actually forget, then remember that she’s gone at least twice a day. Today I realized that I accidentally programed Daddy as Speed-dial #4 on my phone, and that’s Mama’s number. It’s been empty since I deleted her cell number from my phone book because I couldn’t stand seeing it anymore. Should I just leave him as the new occupant of #4? Should I move him? I mean, is #4 just going to stay empty forever?

Resolution? Absolutely no. thing.

Major Issue #2: Infertility. Well, I keep thinking that a nice, calm pregnancy would be just peachy, but my damn innards won’t cooperate. There’s something funky going on this cycle, and I pretty much have no idea what day I’m even on. I’ll spare you the details.

Resolution? Keep my RE appt on Aug 31st and hope for a quick fix. Ha.

Major Issue #3: TheChurch demons. I keep them at bay most of the time, but when they get riled up, it’s completely and utterly draining. I knew this would happen before I even met with the childhood people… I KNEW that it would scrape up and open and expose all sorts of ugly and disturbing crap. I very seriously considered canceling because it’s just so much easier to stay on the surface. When I’m on the surface, Sue and I watch lots of Net.flix movies, and I keep the house relatively clean, and come up with all sorts of culinary adventures for dinner. I might even make a quilt or knit a baby blanket or play solitaire. It’s nice and easy and doesn’t involve tears, insomnia, or gnashing of teeth. But when I mentioned to Sue that I was thinking about canceling, she asked me an excellent question: “Do you think you’ve put TheChurch to rest temporarily or permanently? Because if it’s just temporarily, you need to go.” And so I went.

Resolution? I have no freakin’ clue. I want closure, but I have no idea how to get it.

So there we have it. No solutions, only problems. I hate not feeling like I have any control. I loathe and despise it.

During our talk last night, one of the girls said something so, so smart. She said that “fear is the opposite of faith.” The opposite, meaning you can’t have both… it’s an either/or situation. Overwhelmedness (yes, spellcheck, I know it’s not a word but I’m leaving it) is based on fear. Fear of the future stretching out before me without my mother/guide/touchstone. Fear of a childless world where fighting the sadness and disappointment of infertility is part of my daily life forever. Fear of never being able to quiet TheChurch’s voice in my head.

But faith… ahhh, yes, such a nice, simple little word. Trusting that it’s all going to work out, even though I can’t see the end right now. Trusting that I’ll find peace without Mama, even though I’ll never stop missing her. Trusting that our baby will come when the time is right, even though that’s a hard pill to swallow right now. Trusting that I’ll one day be able to think about TheChurch with no emotion, instead of the rush of anger/guilt/betrayal/frustration/sadness that now collapses on me like a brick wall.

Sometimes I wonder if meditation or some such thing would be beneficial. Learning how to tune out and tune in sounds lovely right about now.

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grief trigger

July 16, 2009 at 8:41 am · Filed under Uncategorized ·Tagged , , , ,

This past Sunday, one of Susanna’s high school friends was killed in an accident. He was 21, the oldest of three boys, a student at Clemson. This week has been rough. Hello, understatement. She and I talked about the loss Sunday before going to bed, where the nightmares ensued. I dreamed that Mama was alive and I was bargaining with her to stay here, crying, begging her not to leave me. For hours, this went on. Finally got up, feeling hungover and exhausted. Was greeted by Sue sitting quietly, with puffy eyes and dark circles. She had dreamed that our dad died, and she was an orphan whom no one wanted. She called into work and slept on the sofa… said that she could sleep as long as she knew that I was in the room with her.

The funeral was last night — the first funeral that Sue has attended since our mother’s. It was a 5-year reunion for Sue’s high school class for the worst imaginable reason. Afterward, she & her friends drank. A lot. But the dreams were waiting, because alcohol only works when you’re awake — she woke herself up this morning crying and saying “Mama.”

It sucks, people. It really, really f-ing sucks. You think you’re getting better, that you’re learning to live around the giant, gaping hole. But it’s a slippery slope, and even the smallest nudge sends you hurtling back into that dark, scary place where you’re nothing but a lost, shattered child.

The grief books call it a “sudden, temporary upsurge of grief,” defined as:

brief periods of intense grief which occur when a catalyst (or trigger) reminds one of the absence of the loved one or resurrects memories of the death, the loved one, or feelings about the loss.

These are not the same as missing or thinking about a person, or even shedding a few tears. No, this is overwhelming anguish, like someone has put you in a time machine and sent you back to when it first happened, when you were raw and bleeding, and not sure if getting out of bed was an option.

Obvious triggers are birthdays, the death anniversary, Mother’s Day, and holidays.  But then there are the sneaky little bastards that blindside you when you least expect it. A sudden death like Sue’s friend, a dream, a picture, a song — even something as seemingly harmless as a hand-written recipe or a lady’s dress in church can bring it crashing back down on you like a wave, rolling you over and incapacitating you for minutes, hours, or days.

I find myself saying that it gets “easier.” Not EASY…. easi-ER. But that dark place is never more than a moment away. And is that really easier? Should any form of the word “easy” be applied to this? Easy means “without effort, free from pain, unoppressive.” Not even in my best moments, on my strongest, most “normal” days, does this word fit. It’s always, ALWAYS there, like a dull ache of chronic disease in remission, and the flare-ups, the attacks, never get easier. Perhaps they get briefer… but when you feel your soul and heart shriveling and bleeding for all that’s lost, “easy” is nowhere in sight.

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“touched by something extra”

June 13, 2009 at 4:04 pm · Filed under Uncategorized ·Tagged , ,

The horror of yesterday is fading, thankfully. Once I picked myself up off the floor of Mama’s room, the remainder of the day was a fog… too drained to feel much of anything. Stopped at the grocery store on the way home and bought beer and frosted sugar cookies — yes, that’s what we called emotional eating at its finest. Watched mindless tv until I fell asleep amidst my cookies crumbs. I’ll have to change the sheets before Bobby gets home to hide the evidence.

I’ve been told that I would love the movie “Big Fish,” but I’ve purposefully avoided it. Something about the reviews made me think that it’s not a movie to watch casually. By sheer coincidence (if you believe in coincidence), it arrived this week compliments of Netflix. I watched it this afternoon, and what perfect timing. It’s one of the most beautiful representations of living (and dying) that I’ve ever seen. The final scene filled my heart with joy while tears rained down, because it reminded me of what death really is for someone who has touched the lives of others. The son carries his father down an embankment to the river, while all the people of his father’s life, the people from his stories, are standing there on the bank to say goodbye. They’re waving and smiling with love and appreciation for his father’s life. The son, who narrates the movie, says:

“And the strange thing is there’s not a sad face to be found. Everyone’s just so glad to see you, and send you off right… You become what you always were.”

And I was comforted, remembering that the horrific, nightmarish details of Mama’s death are insignificant in her very big, very colorful, very vibrant life. She was an extraordinary lady, and her story is so much larger than a blood-stained nightgown and a bag full of gut-wrenching memories. I’m grateful that my mother was the kind of woman who had many friends on the riverbank, waving and smiling as we sent her off.

I only hope that I can capture enough, communicate enough, tell enough stories, so that my children and their children will know her as well.

“There are some fish that cannot be caught. It’s not that they’re faster or stronger then the other fish. They’re just touched by something extra.”  –  Big Fish

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