They come back

The past week my state, region, friends and family have been through a lot.  It's being dubbed the 500 year flood.  As the events began to unfold last Friday, I was glued to social media as I watched the traumatic events.  And although I was blessed to be spared the worst of this ordeal, many were not so lucky.

In the midst of this catastrophe, as I became more anxious for myself and others, they came back.   The nightmares.  Gone for more than a month or so, I thought this part of grief was behind me.  But it was not so.  They came back.  As real and painful as before.  Sometimes I relive that last night.  The words spoken, the fear, the worry, the prayers, the pain, the disbelief, the guilt, the words not spoken.  It's all there.  But this time the dreams were different.  Mom was alive again.  I knew she had a heart problem. And I was doing everything to stop the heart attack from happening. I recognized all the signs of a heart condition.  I frantically took her from doctor to doctor.   This time would be different. The outcome would be different!   But it's not.  I can't stop it.  

I awaken with pain and loss anew.  And it hurts so deeply again.  The past 6 months fade away and the wound is fresh.  And the fear of sleeping returns. 

The roles we play

From the time we are born, we start taking on the different roles of life.  First and foremost, we become sons or daughters.  Sometimes, we are simultaneously brothers or sisters.  As time goes by and we grow and life progresses, our roles change.  We are cousins and aunts/uncles.  Some choose the role of spouse and are blessed to play the role of parent.  With each role, I think we add to the weaving of who we are or, maybe better said, at who we perceive ourselves to be.

I've thought about the void I feel so deeply now with the death of both of my parents and I've come to the conclusion that it in part has to do with these roles.  As my life progressed, some of the more traditional roles were left out.  Although a wife for a short time, I am no longer in that role.  I've also accepted that it was not God's will for me to have the role of mother.  I don't understand this path I'm on but, for the most part, I've rarely doubted that this is the path He wants me on.  Yet, with the death of my Mom, I am left with no major role to play.  My whole life the role that mattered to me the most was that of daughter.  Not to minimize the pain of others at the lost of their parents, but in the instance where no major roles remain, mother..,father...husband...wife...grandparent..., I can tell you that the void is overwhelming.  I honestly don't know what I'm supposed to do now.  And to be honest, there are moments where I truly feel I no longer know who I am.  

I guess the best way for me to express this is to say I lost myself as well as my Mom on March 8.  And 6 months later, I am still trying to determine my new role.

One day after Dad died, Mom and I were driving back to Lafayette from Hammond.  It was probably the last trip she made to the house to retrieve her belongings.  She quietly wept as I drove and finally said, "I don't know who I am anymore.  What's my purpose?"  I calmly replied, "I don't know Mom, but God still has you here so He obviously still has a purpose for you, and I promise I'll help you figure it out."

I can almost hear her now quieting my questioning confusion..."I don't know, Hon, but you're still here so He must still have one for you, and together we'll figure it out." 

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.