It was the right thing to do

About a month after Mom died, the gentleman I had been communicating with for several months chose to end our relationship.  I'm not going to lie, it hurt.  But even in that moment, I knew it was the right thing to do. 

I was looking for a new purpose, a new outlet for my love, a new direction and already I could feel myself channeling this towards him.  It would have been so easy.  It would have made this transition back to normal simpler.  But none of that means it would have been right. My judgment was clouded.  I could barely decide what to wear and eat much less who to spend my life with. 

Yet, this man stayed with me through the hospital stays and the funeral.  He called and sent flowers and was a true, supportive friend.  

So, to him I'd like to say, regardless of your rationale, you did the right thing for me.  I wish you nothing but the best and all happiness.  

We gotcha, P

So far I've written about the aspects of grief that are clean, respectable, but to be honest, I need to tell another story. 

Last week I went to the beach with friends.  Our annual friendcation.  I was doing well.  Faking normal in close proximity for 24/7 until the Friday night.  We went to a local bar and I drank.  I didn't just drink, I DRANK!  Probably the most I've ever had to drink in my entire life, and that's saying a lot since I started drinking back in the 18 year old era of drinking.  I had always been proud to say that I had never drank so much that I had blacked out or that I had gone to bed without taking my makeup off.  Can't say that anymore.  Because I DRANK. 

I should probably say that typically, I am the responsible one.  Always have been.  Part of this is due to my being somewhat of a control freak.  I never wanted to lose control that much.  But it had also never happened because I have never trusted anyone enough to take care of me if I have too much to drink.   I know my friends love me dearly, but this level of trust was different.  If you're my friend or have dated me in the past, please don't take this personally.  This was a generalization on my part.  I didn't trust anyone.  So, what was different that Friday night?  Did I suddenly start trusting? Nope.  I didn't care.  I'll elaborate on this more in another post, but for now suffice it to say, I no longer cared or at least I thought I didn't.  So, I DRANK. 

I remember at one point dancing to the live music and having a good time and thinking I needed to stop, but I didn't...I DRANK.  I can't even tell you what I drank.  I know there was vodka, and fireball, and shots.  And I didn't care.  I DRANK.  One minute I was happy and dancing and then I was numb and felt nothing and it felt good.  So, I DRANK. 

And then, I stood up and tried to walk.  My friends carried me from the bar.  "You got me?" "We gotcha, P." Our pregnant designated driver drove us back to the condo where I pseudo passed out on the floor of my bedroom.  Actually I was in the doorway of my bedroom and although I could hear everything going on around me, I was incapable of responding.  There was a massive internal dialogue going on inside my head.  "Get up! You don't do this! You don't pass out! You don't black out! You don't go to bed with makeup on!  GET UP!"  But nothing. 

Finally, I mustered the energy to try and move.  I should have stayed down.  I was instantly nauseous.  It took every ounce of strength I had to get to the bathroom.  Notice I say bathroom and not toilet.  Yep, that's as far as I got.  I won't go into the gory details but I'm sure you can imagine. 

Once done, my limited energy depleted, I just laid there.  Laid there in my own vomit.  For a split second, I was actually afraid I was going to drown there.  I called out to my pregnant designated driver in the other room.  My friends moved in like a hazmat team.  The same husband who had carried me out of the bar, scooped me up and placed me in the garden bath tub fully clothed.  "I gotcha." He sat on the edge of the tub and cradled my head in his lap as he, while instructed by the wives, washed my hair.  I remember them reminding him to use conditioner too.  All the while they kept repeating "we gotcha, P." 

The men were shooed from the room as the women gathered up clean clothes.  I started undressing and they handed me the clean things.  I said, "I got this!"  They turned to leave the room and down I went, hard.  Right on my left elbow.  Over a week later and the bruise is still there and it still hurts.  "P, you don't got this!" They helped me dress and made sure I made it to bed. 

It took several days for me to recover physically and to process, because that's what I do.  So, here it is, the post game analysis. 

Is that really how I want to die? Drowning in my own vomit?  Maybe not everyone has had time to think what the headline will read when they die, but this has crossed my mind several times in my life.   When I was 19 and had toxic shock syndrome (Yes, you read that correctly), I was in the hospital fighting to live and had very little strength.  Mom was with me and would help me go to and from the bathroom.  I explained the process that needed to take place, slow there, fast back.  It would always take me a few steps to get going but coming back, I'd be running on fumes so we needed to make that trip faster.  Mom seemed to have trouble grasping this concept because every time as she pushed my IV stand (Which we had affectionately named Todd), I would feel it clipping at my heels.  EVERY TIME!   Finally, I joked and said, " I can see it now Young Co-Ed Dead, Run Over by IV Stand." 

Later in life when I had meningitis (Yes, you read that correctly.), one doctor tactfully informed me that I wasn't in the "typical age range" for this illness.  Headline: Too Old to Die From Meningitis.

And then there was the time I had the mass in my colon removed.  That was a rough one.  Lots of complications.  Headline: "No Poop, She Just Popped." 

So, as I reflected on the events of that fateful Friday night, here's what I saw: Beloved University Professor (A little poetic license) Drowns in Vomit in Florida Condo.  Really?  Is that what I wanted people to remember about me?  No.  Even more importantly, is this my parent's legacy?  NO!  I can honestly say, never again! 

Having said all of that, I believe God allowed Friday night to happen, for those events to unfold.  Because I learned several very important things from that evening.  First, I don't "got" this.  Mom used to tell me that the first sentence out of my mouth was " I can do it myself."  As much as I've tried to do this myself, to not bother anyone, guess what? I don't got this.  But thankfully, I learned something else, my friends "got" me.  They were there.  They didn't just leave me to fend for myself.  They washed my hair and even used conditioner!  "We gotcha, P."

And the last thing I learned from that event....The first night back home, I lie in bed and prayed.  I'm sorry, that's not me, that's not who I want to be.  But where to go from here....and in the silence.....a small voice...."It's OK, I've got you."  Someone told me this week that when we no longer have the energy to hold onto God, He's still holding onto us. You see, He's "got" me. 

Yes, I drank.  Yes, it was like a crime scene.  Yes, it was painful and still is.  And yes, it was not one of my better moments.  But maybe it needed to happen because now I know...

It's not suicide, but I'll go first

At some point, I stopped caring if I lived.   This isn't suicide so don't panic.   I noticed this for the first time in Costa Rica.  We were zip lining and came to the "Tarzan" swing.  A super tall platform that you simply jump off of and free fall swing.  Scary? Yes.  Dangerous? Possibly.  So when the guy asked who I wanted to go first, I said I would.  

Then we went parasailing.  A threesome.  My fellow colleague and one of our students.  She asked what happens if we go down.  I told her, "I'll do everything to save you, but you promise me you'll just leave me and save yourself."  Scary? Yes.  Dangerous? Possibly.  But I didn't care.  

This is my unique take on grief.  I've lost all the people who need me.  You lose a spouse, most times there are children who need you.  Most people lose a parent and have a spouse and children to care for.  I took care of my parents.  For my entire life and specifically the past few years, I made few decisions without first thinking how they would impact my parents.  And now? My life is my own.  

Look, it's not like I don't think people would miss me if I wasn't here.  Of course.  But no one needs me.  No one needs me to drive them to the doctor or pick up "just one more thing" from the drug store.  It's different now. 

I'm not going to be reckless or foolish but I will take chances.  I will live unafraid.  I will take the leaps and jump from the platforms.  It's not suicide, just living!  

Thank God for Good Neighbors

I live in a neighborhood with, to put it kindly, a persnickety Homeowners Association.   They will flag you for just about anything.  Don't weed your flowerbeds? Flag.   Paint your fence the wrong color? Flag.  Dead flowers in your flower beds? Flag.  But to be fair, they protect me from neighbors' dead flowers, pink fences, and weedy yards.  

However, in the weeks following Mom's death my lawn guy decided to go missing in action and frankly, I just didn't have the initiative to make the phone call to track him down. So every day I came home, checked my mail and expected to find my HOA warning letter for high grass.  Every day.  It was a little dark cloud hanging over my head.  And I'd breathe a sigh of relief every day the mail box was empty.  

Then one day I came home and the grass was mowed.  But there was no bill from my lawn guy.  I asked my neighbors and they knew it had been mowed but no one knew who had done it.  It was several weeks before I discovered that my neighbor across the street had sent her lawn service to my house that day.  In her own words, "I just thought that was one less thing for you to worry about." 

This was just one of many little gifts from my neighbors following my loss.  I didn't have to put my trash can out or put it back away for weeks!  It just magically made it to the curb and back behind my garage every Sunday night.  I honestly never saw anyone doing it.   I received scented lotions and bath salts for relaxation.   It was amazing! 

Now this would have been nice and kind if I'd live in this neighborhood for a long time.  I would have expected neighbors to respond in this way.  But I moved to this house a short 7 months before losing Mom.  These people didn't know me yet.  Seriously, some of them I had only briefly spoken to going in and out of my house.  And yet, they took care of me.  There was nothing trivial in their small acts of kindness and I will never forget.  They are now part of my village. 

Hi Hon, are you there?

When we were clearing out Mom's apartment, we noticed she had many messages on her phone.  And guess what?  Most were from me....and almost all, exactly the same.  "Hey! It's me.  Are you there?"   "Hey! It's me.   Are you there?"  Over and over.   You see, Mom still had a landline and traditional answering machine.  And although she lived in a small apartment, she rarely had her phone with her.  So, most times, she WAS there, but just needed a little time to get to the phone.  My messages gave her the time she needed.  And her response..."hey, I'm here."    I can close my eyes and still hear her.  

Or...I can search voicemails on my cell and hear her.  "Hi Hon!  It's me."  "Hi Hon! It's me." Over and over.   We each always said exactly the same thing.  I'm not sure why either one of us felt the need to say who we were since I'm pretty sure we could recognize each other's voices.  And yet..."Hey, it's me" is what we said.  

As I listen to those voicemails, which I've done many times, I smile.  Although I can't hear her anymore in the earthly sense, there have been several times in the past few months that something would happen and it's like she was saying, "Hi Hon! It's me."   

In case you were wondering, I have no intention of ever erasing those messages.   When I have a bad day, which we all do at times, I'm going to play them all one after another.  Just to remind me that she's here, with me, always.  

Just for a second

It happened.  Just for a second.   I was happy again.  Just for a second.  On my way home from tennis, singing out loud, loudly to one of my favorite songs.   And just for a second, I was happy.   Do you notice those seconds?  I think most people don't recognize the happy seconds.  But in that second, I felt it.  I noticed it.  I knew it.  And...I cried.  

Strange reaction?  Possibly. Why did I cry, you might be wondering?  The most obvious reason is I cried because I felt guilty.  I'm not supposed to ever be happy again, right?  That's what you feel when you lose someone significant.  Someone you loved more than life itself.  I'm supposed to remain sad.   Not even one second of happiness.  So, I cried. 

But besides that, mostly I cried because in that second I realized I COULD  be happy again!  It's a possibility.  Maybe just maybe, there will be happiness again in my future.  I know this seems odd to those who haven't been here but trust me, this was an epiphany.  A huge revelation.  A life changing moment.  

And all of this took place in just a second of time.  

The following is a paid program

Despite over 400 cable channels, there still comes that moment late at night or early in the morning, depending on your perspective, where there is nothing to watch.  For someone who's struggling with insomnia, the most dreaded words are "the following is a paid program."    It means I've slipped into the zone.  The zone of abnormal.  The vampire zone, I like to call it.  But mostly it feels like the loser zone.  The "here we go again" zone.  

It was awful in the beginning.  I never fell asleep before 3 or 4 a.m.   If I tried to close my eyes sooner, the nightmares came.  I relived that last night in full technicolor detail.  So, I waited until I was near collapse from exhaustion to try and sleep.  I waited until I knew I wouldn't dream.  I sought help from my doctor who prescribed a sleep aid.  Only made me feel more abnormal.  

So I was determined.  

Now, I'm asleep by midnight most nights.  And I can fall asleep without the help of prescription medication.  And I'm no longer haunted by those words "the following is a paid program."  Another step on the road back to the world of normal.  

I don't know what to do with my hair

It's the little things you miss without a Mom.  The advice.  What pot to use? What temperature do I cook that on? Do you like this polish? What about this outfit?  And these are just a few.  I thought this was mostly limited to me, but it's not.  Apparently, my Mom was the voice of wisdom for many people.  

I visited the assisted living last week and one of the ladies approached me.  "I sure do miss your Mom. I don't know what to do with my hair."  Excuse me?  "She always told me what products to use and what to do with my hair."  Another lady, "I miss your mom because she told me how to fix my spray bottle.  It's broken again and now I can't remember what she did."  

That was my mom in a nutshell.  The one who took the time to listen to all your big life issues like your hair and your spray bottle.  Mom was an encourager.  That was her gift.  

In her honor,  I walked down the hall and fixed that lady's spray bottle.  Good as new.  

You surround me with song

In church a few weeks ago, one of the lines in a song we sang stated "you surround me with song."  Song is so important for me.  As I've noted previously, the time in my car is the worst for me and the music on the radio is so important.  If the wrong song is playing, I immediately respond to it emotionally.  So I've been very selective about what I listen to.   Friends have shared some CDs with me and I've also discovered several songs on my own that have become my regular playlist.  Here are a few:

"Every single tear"-He hears every single tear.  He wants to hold you close and dry your eyes. 

"Just be held"- So, when you're on your knees and answers seem so far away.  You're not alone, stop holding on and just be held.

"Tell your heart to beat again"-"You're shattered like you've never been before.  The life you knew in a thousand pieces on the floor...Let the shadows fall away and step into the light of grace.  

"Move (keep walking)"- I know you're feeling like you got nothing left; Well, lift your head, it ain't over yet.

"It might be hope"- You say to yourself it's been a while since I felt this but it feels like it might be hope. 

"Breathe"- Come and rest at my feet. And be just be.  Chaos calls but all you really need is to just breathe.  

There are many others but these are my favorites.  As I stood in church that Sunday morning, I suddenly realized, He has been surrounding me with song.  So many times I turn on the radio and one of these songs is playing.  I set my alarm last week using a new phone app and it automatically picked the song I had been playing the most.  I awoke to one of the above songs.  

And now as I wake, go through my day, and fall asleep at night, one series of lines echoes in my head:

"Beginning.  Just let that word wash over you.  It's alright now.  Love's healing hands have pulled you through.  So get back up, take step one.  Leave the darkness, feel the sun.  'Cause your story's far from over and your journey's just begun".  

Beginning....wash over me.