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. 

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.  

The processes of death or how I'm drowning in paperwork!

How do you end a life? How do you close the books on something so precious? Answer: with mounds of paperwork! Within minutes of Mom passing, someone was shoving a clipboard in my face with some document that required my signature. I have no idea what it was but I know I received a yellow copy of it. Not sure where that ended up. But that was just the beginning. There are so many forms and certificates and filings necessary to close out a life. As I continue to sort through the maze of bureaucracy, I still frequently think "what do the stupid people do?" Now this isn't a judgment of any kind, but I have 9 years of college education and struggle with my understanding of all of these processes.

And I can't help but think that this is what a life is boiled down to. A stack of papers. I have Mom's paperwork sorted into 4 separate folders. It took me a month or so but I was literally drowning in paperwork. Ironically, if you're the one still here going through the grief process focusing on small things can be a chore so asking me to decide major things now is really comical. In fact, once I made the DNR decision that early March morning, I didn't honestly think I'd ever be able to make another decision again. But I have and I will. 

So here are my words of wisdom regarding the paperwork. Try to get your loved one's world very small before they die. I learned this after Dad and it made a huge difference. All of Mom's bills were in my name. Nothing had frustrated more than calling to cancel a light bill and having the operator insist she needed to speak to my Father. My response had become "well, that's going to be a little hard but if you get through to him, please let him know there are a few things I'd like to talk to him about." I found this usually diffused an already difficult situation. Also, try to organize quickly. I spent several weeks drowning before I sorted the folders. That has made all the difference in controlling my frustration level. And finally, just be honest with people. If you haven't paid the bill because you threw it in a stack and couldn't face it, tell them. Explain how tough this has been. Let them see or hear your humanness. I cannot tell you how wonderful people are when you just lay yourself out there raw and exposed.

The paperwork has slowed slightly now that we are almost 3 months out but it's just the lull before another round as we close the estate in June. But I'm not quite as raw and I am beginning to trust my decision making ability again. Someone asked me just this week how I was and I said, "I'm doing a little better but I'll be okay." Her response "of course, you're your mother's daughter." Thank God for that.


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No one waiting

I flew home from Costa Rica this past week.  It was the first time I'd traveled by plane since Mom died.  Normally I would have checked in at every point.  "At the airport."  "On the plane."  "Just landed in Houston."   "I'll call when I land in Lafayette."   

   It had been a good trip.  We stayed busy and being responsible for 17 college students kept me occupied both mentally and physically.  So there wasn't much time to think.  But coming home was different. As I landed in Houston it hit me...no one was waiting.  No one was waiting for the phone call.  No one was waiting to see me.  For 10 days, no one had been waiting and there was no one waiting now.  I got my luggage, walked to my car and cried all the way home.  

It is these moments that matter most and the ones we take most for granted.  Just part of life's routine.  If I could go back in time, I'd cherish those phone calls that sometimes seemed a nuisance. I wouldn't take them for granted.  But so often, we go through life believing that someone will always be there waiting and we don't realize how comfortable that feeling is until it's gone. 

Revolting development...

   This should have been my first post, but it's the blog I never wanted to write.  I've been postponing it because I knew it would be so difficult.  When  I started writing this blog, it was to heal and express how I was feeling.  And these were things I've been trying for over two months to forget, to not feel. This is the recounting of the day my Mom died, March 6th.

   It started early on a Sunday morning.  I, as usual, had silenced my cell phone for the evening. So  it was only when I awoke that I noticed I had just missed a call from Mom's assisted living facility.  I used to always hold my breath when this number came up on my phone and this time was no different.  I immediately called back and the nurse told me that Mom had been sick since she woke up and that her pulse rate was unsteady.  She told me that they were sending her to the hospital and they suspected she just needed some fluids or something.  This seemed logical.  There had been a stomach virus going around the facility and Mom had been doing great.  No need to suspect anything else.
    I hastily threw on clothes and rushed to the ER.  I beat her there.  It seemed like hours before she arrived.  In that time, I called my brother and texted many friends to ask for prayers.  When the ambulance finally arrived, I rushed to the back and stood there as they opened the doors.  There was my Mom in her floral pajamas, smiling down at me..."well, isn't this a revolting development."  One of her favorite phrases.  We both giggled.
   They rushed her into a room and immediately started hooking her up to machines.  Like frantic ants whose mound has been disturbed, the ER staff scurried around my Mom and in and out of the room.  Worried looks on their faces.  I couldn't understand what all the fuss was about.  She had a stomach virus.  A kind, handsome doctor pulled me from the doorway into the hall to quietly inform me that my mother was having a heart attack.  I told him that couldn't be because she didn't have a heart condition.  He was so patient with me as he explained that well, he needed to check any way.  They all left as quickly as they had appeared and Mom and I were alone for the first time.  I stood by her bed and held her hand and  I cried.  She lay quietly as she squeezed my hand and held it tightly.  And then they were back.  She was whisked away to the cath lab and I was escorted to the waiting room.
    On an early Sunday morning, I sat alone in the surgical waiting room.  I leaned my face into my hands and sobbed.  I pleaded with God.  Please.  I'm not ready to lose her.   I can't do this without her.  I wiped my face and headed to the cafeteria to find something  to eat.  I needed to stay strong...for her.  I picked at my food and popped a couple of Advil.  It had been almost 4 hours since that phone call.  I made more phone calls and waited.  After about an hour, the kind doctor reappeared.  He explained that one of Mom's arteries had been 100% blocked.  He had stinted it and her heart was strong.  No damage.  There was no reason why she shouldn't make a full recovery.  I breathed a sigh of relief .
   I went to ICU to wait for her.  They rolled her in and she was awake.  She smiled at me.  A smile that said I'm still here.  The nurses came and settled her in.  She WAS strong.  And she wanted to live.  See, Mom had found a new purpose since Dad passed away three years ago.  She was the welcoming committee, counselor, and friend of her assisted living companions.  Her entire married life, Mom had been the one in the background, the supporter, to be cliche...the wind beneath the wings.  She was content to support her husband and children.  That was her job.  As we drove back to Lafayette from Hammond one of the last times she went there, she wept and said, "I don't know what my purpose is now."  I told her that she obviously still had one because she was still here.  Well, she had found that purpose.  And she wanted to live.
   That afternoon the nurses kept asking her if she needed things and she would say, "No, but if I do, Patricia will get it for me."  That's who we had always been, but since Dad, even more so.  But she was fine.  We talked, we laughed, we planned.  We were going to my nephew's graduation in May.  I discussed my trip to Costa Rica in May and how I had hired a dog sitter already and she said, "Oh, I'll be fine to keep her by then."  She wanted to live.  Don't get me wrong, my Mom was ready to die.  She knew with all certainty where she was going and that she would see my Dad again.  But that afternoon, we both wanted her to live.  My brother kept texting and finally about 5 pm I convinced her that he needed to hear her voice.  She said her throat was dry and she would just talk to him tomorrow, but I pressed the issue and punched in the number.  I heard her side of the conversation, animated, normal.  She was fine, she reassured, and no, he didn't need to come.  She said goodbye and handed me the phone.  As she did this, she took my hand and said "I told him we didn't need him.  You and I have got this."  And she smiled.
  As the night went on, she was still sick.  She couldn't keep anything down, not even water.  I fed her ice chips.  Only a few at a time.  I wiped her face and put Vaseline on her lips.  And we got quiet.  Something wasn't right.  I knew it, but I wouldn't let myself believe it.  She was just tired I kept telling her.  It had been a long day.  She just needed to rest.  Tomorrow would be fine.  God, please just get her through this night.  I thought that if we could just make it through this night, everything would be fine.  She was so restless.  Talking out loud and gesturing in the air.  Not like people say. She wasn't seeing the other side.  She was talking to her friends at the assisted living.  She was organizing them as she often did.  And she would awaken and knew she had been doing it.  I googled all her symptoms.  Was this normal?  She was going to be fine.  She wanted to live.
     Around midnight, she finally quieted and seemed to be resting. I lay awake on the pull out chair, listening and watching the machines.  Every 15 minutes, a new reading.  I watched and waited.  And as the machine beeped and clicked, I heard a familiar sound.  Mom was praying.  I couldn't make out the words, but I had seen and heard this before.  The quiet murmuring of a prayer.
     I stood by her bed and held her hand.  "Just rest, Mom."  She looked at me, "I'm so tired."  "Yes, I know.  Try to sleep."  "But, I just feel so sick."  My heart grabbed in my chest.  This was my Mom and she never complained about anything.  I can't explain it, but I began to panic.  I knew in that moment that I was going to lose her.  But denial was strong.  And she wanted to live?
   Those were the last words my Mom said to me.  She drifted off to sleep.  Not me though, I watched the machines and prayed.  It was about 30 minutes later and the numbers started to drop.  I jumped up and ran into the hall to meet the nurse heading my way.  "Are you worried?"  She wasn't.  Probably just a bad reading.  Do it again.  Still bad.  And here the ants came gain.  Injections, oxygen...and the numbers continued to drop.  "Did she have a living will on file?"  No, I had forgotten it at home.  "What do you want us to do?"  But he said her heart was strong.  He said she would be fine.  And she wanted to live!! Yelling at her.  Calling her name.  No response.  Her eyes opened once, but they were empty.  I backed into the corner of the room as they worked.  I felt like a scared little girl.  Why were they asking me these questions?  I was just a child.  "You have to tell us now!"  Quietly at first and then with a yell...NO! Do nothing.  A young male nurse brought me back to the side of the bed.  I held her hand and she was gone.  I collapsed into the arms of a buxom nurse.  "I've got you, baby."  A room full of strangers and me.  They didn't know me, but they had witnessed Mom and I all night and they knew, and they shed tears for me.  Each one assuring me that I had done the right thing.  I had made the correct decision.  I had honored her to the end.  And the nurse who held me told me how proud of me she was.  "I've had families with living wills in their hands not be strong enough to do what you did tonight by yourself."  Through my tears I whispered, "But I didn't get to tell her I loved her."  She smiled, "All night she trusted you to take care of her. She wanted you and you alone by her side.  Baby, she knew you loved her."
   I sat there numb.  Motionless.  "Who can we call for you?"  By now, it was after one in the morning.  I needed to call my brother.  All I could get out was "She's gone, she's gone, she's gone."  He would come, but it would take time.  "Baby, I can't let you leave here alone."  I was shaking uncontrollably.  "Honey, focus on me.  You're going into shock.  Breathe."  I made several phone calls before someone answered.   No hello, "Are you alone?"  "Yes."  "Where are you? I'm on my way."  She was there in about 15 minutes.  We packed up our things.  I held Mom's  hand one last time and my friend and I walked out into the night.
    I drove home alone.  I wasn't thinking clearly.  I sent many texts that simply said, "Mom is gone."  One of my friends from work was awake...at 3 am.  She responded, "I'm so sorry.  What do you need?"  "I don't know."  "I'm on my way."  She sat with me until the rest of the world woke up and read those texts.  I honestly don't know what I would have done in those hours without her.  Other friends arrived around 6 and then 7 and 7:30.  It's a blur but I remember I couldn't stop shaking and crying.  Friends stayed with me until my brother arrived around 10:30.   In about 24 hours, my world was forever changed.  My mother was my best friend, my confidante, my encourager, my biggest fan, my hero, my role model, my spiritual adviser, my everything.  And she was gone.
    It's been almost 3 months since that night.  Time has helped some.  The shaking stopped.  It took about a month.  Doctors said I was in shock.  A sort of post-traumatic stress thing.  I finally started eating and sleeping again. I smile and laugh again.  It still feels hollow though.  I've been forcing normal for weeks.  I still don't know how to do this without her, but I'm learning.   I guess I'm growing, changing, developing....a revolting development...true words.

All your tears...

     In the beginning, they never stopped.  I actually couldn't understand how I could shed so many tears.  It took nothing to make them start.  A word, a song, a memory, a comment, a photo...everything brought on tears.  After many weeks, I couldn't believe they would ever stop.  And they haven't.   They slowed.  There not as frequent, but they still come.  I cry the most these days in my car.  On the way to school or a tennis match.  I know that may seem odd but these are the times when I called Mom. Always, every day.  That was our routine.  On my way to and from school.  To see how her night was and check on how she felt.  To hear what adventures her day held, quarter bingo or a craft project or a visiting music group.  "They're very nice but they're getting older and she really can't hit the notes anymore, but I go to show my support."  And then I'd call on the way home.  "Did you win today?  How was lunch? What did y'all eat?"  Nothing special.  Just each of us sharing in the other's ordinary.  But oh how I miss those conversations.   On the way to tennis, we'd talk about the match, who I would be playing with, where we were playing.   And always after to tell her the details of the, hopefully, win.  Mom had played tennis in her younger years and she still understood the particulars of the game.  In fact, her father had built them a dirt/clay court next to their home when she was a teenager.  It was just another mundane thing that added to our bond.

  Now, there is no one to call.  So in the silence, I weep.  Weep is a better word than cry.  We may cry in joy, but we only weep in grief.  Some one told me once that the composition of tears shed in grief differs from all other tears.  So, of course, I googled.  Turns out, my friend was right.  

      Rose-Lynn Fisher wondered if her tears of grief would look different compared to her tears of joy, so she began to explore them up close under a microscope. She studied 100 different tears and found, for example, that the ones our body produces to lubricate our eyes are drastically different from the tears that happen when we are chopping onions. The tears that come about from hard laughter aren’t even close to the tears of sorrow. Like a drop of ocean water each tiny tear drop carries a microcosm of human experience. Her project is called The Topography of Tears.  Interestingly, emotional tears have protein-based hormones including the neurotransmitter leucine enkephalin, which is a natural painkiller that is released when we are stressed. It's like when we shed tears of grief, our tears act as numbing agents against the pain.  Plus, the tears seen under the microscope are crystallized salt and can lead to different shapes and forms.  (Information retrieved from http://www.lifebuzz.com/tears/).

This is a picture of the tears shed in laughter:

This is the photo of tears shed at a joyful reunion:

And this is a picture of tears shed in sorrow:



All these tears and all these chemicals are amazing to me.  But even more amazing is the scripture that states that God records every tear shed.  

 "You keep track of all my sorrows; 

You have collected all my tears in Your bottle; 

You have recorded each one in Your book"  

-Psalms 56:8 (NLT)

I can hardly wrap my mind around that.  God knows every tear I've shed and those yet to be shed.  In my car, I'm not alone.  God is there listening, counting, collecting, and recording.  He made these tears to be different.  So, I will continue to weep with no shame knowing that these tears were divinely designed to help me heal.  

The faces of grief.

    A friend of mine sent me a picture of an artist's interpretation of the weight of grief.  A wire frame human shape kneeling and filled with rocks.  It's like that.  The weight is so great that every breath, every step, every word uttered seems impossible.  I couldn't express to friends how weighed down I felt.  But the artist captured it perfectly.




That night I began to search for other artists' depictions of grief.  Not surprisingly, most are in cemeteries.  Here are a few samples:

 



   


   

Like the weighted down human, many of the statues are bowed over in grief, unable to stand upright.  I know this feeling.  Even when walking or standing, I never fully feel like I'm standing upright.  My shoulders still feel weighted and bowed over.  Notice that several are actually prostrate in their grief. In the past months, I too have physically fallen to the floor overwhelmed by the power of grief. 

I also find it interesting that many of the faces of the statues are concealed, covered in their hands. I thought about this for a while and came up with several explanations. Perhaps it is because so much of the grieving process takes place in private. I often make it through an event only to cry in my car on the way home.  Or turn my head when something triggers the grief so no one can see.   I'm sure I'm not alone.  There comes a time in the grieving process that people no longer know how to respond to your tears. It's odd but somehow you see a look and just know that from that moment forward, your grieving will be something to keep to yourself. Oh how much easier would it be if this was not the case?  If you could continue to share the weight of your grief with others.  But unfortunately it becomes a lonely, singular burden that only you must find a way to bear. Finally, I thought of another possible explanation for the covered faces.  Perhaps the artists wanted to allow each of us to place our faces in the blank spaces.  To impose our own persona on the faceless griever.  Well it worked for me.  Each photo I found seem to be a mirrored reflection of my own grief.  I shared their plaster tears.  And as I searched, I felt compelled to keep searching for more images, more likenesses of my pain.  I suddenly didn't feel so alone.  Obviously many others across time had shared in this process.  And they understood.  I can't explain the comfort of seeing those images, but in some twisted way, I am now a part of this strange stone family. 

Tomorrow Will Be Different.

Today will be a good day.  Today is Mother's Day.  Mom died two months ago.  This will be the first Mother's Day in my life that there will be no card to buy, no phone call to make, or reservation to book.  But today will be a good day.  Today everyone will understand my sadness.  They will not expect me to smile or laugh.  In fact, today I can cry openly and it will be okay.  Today no one will tell me that time will help or that life goes on.   All my friends will think of me today.  They will send good thoughts my way.  They may stop and say a special prayer as I come to their mind today.  Today everyone will rally their support of me.  Today there will be texts and emails, greeting cards, and Facebook messages and maybe even phone calls to reach out to me.  Today I will feel loved. 

But tomorrow, as I return home, I'll pass through Hammond.  Past the exit where my parents lived, where I turned more times than I can remember now.  And there will be tears.  There will be heartache anew.  The pain will be just as real tomorrow.  In fact, there will be an overwhelming sense of loss and loneliness in the aftermath of Mother's Day.  Yes...there will be more tears shed again in private.  And on this day, there will be no texts, no emails, no phone calls, no cards.   Everyone will have returned to their own busy lives.  It's not that they love me any less, but the reminders won't come. So it is with grief, I've learned.  It's personal.   Each experience with grief is unique.  Only you walk the path you're on.  And tomorrow I will feel alone.

But today will be a good day.