Entries Tagged 'Death' ↓

It’s been a little quiet here for the past couple days. Because it happened again. Another tragedy in 2009. A friend and Florida blogger lost her two year old son in a very sudden pool accident.

It simply left me speechless.

Shellie and I met this year at a blogger event. She is wonderful. Recently, she promised me I could come watch the next shuttle launch from her beautiful front porch. She had just moved into her new home. She sent me a picture and its stunning. And now this happens.

Nothing shifts the world off its axis more than the passing of a child.

Nothing.

And unfortunately I have seen two other mothers lose their beautiful babies this year too.

First there was Maddie.

And then there was Maggie.

As if I got by unscathed. As if tragedy couldn’t touch my world either. As if.

2009 reared it’s ugly head with mighty force mid-year when my mother passed away.

I thought I understood how it felt to mourn. I was so wrong. I still feel like the world froze in its place on July 25th and now I’m looking around, blinking with surprise, asking “What’s with all the Christmas stuff? Summer isn’t over. No way. My mom JUST died. What the hell is going on here?”

And then, right before Thanksgiving, with visions of healing holiday joy dancing in our heads, news about Anissa’s brain bleed was shared. And to say that her future is uncertain… well. That would be an enormous understatement. She is amazing, her improvements are mind boggling. But still, my friend is in a hospital simply trying to communicate when I know she’d rather be home raising her children and tweeting about bewbs.

In between all of this, there have unposted tough times too. A best friend moved away, friends have had miscarriages, there have been broken hearts, dramas, and far too many lost jobs.

So I was already counting down to the end of 2009. Totally ready to wipe my hands of it, away with you, don’t let it hit ya where the good Lord split ya.

And then this.

So. Now. For real. Sure, yes, there have been some great highlights to this year but I am so done. SO DONE. So pissed and angry and hateful for all the sad that has unfolded, one month after another. It’s outrageous.

Enough.

Peace out 2009.

And 2010? Karma kind of owes a few people one helluva year. Here’s hoping.

To those who have lost loved ones or suffered a tragedy or loss this year, my heart is with you.

The brain is an amazing thing. It takes flying leaps of faith and swears to truth – when there is nothing. It fills in gaps with synaptic trickery to cover over painful voids. It holds on to years of experience and pieces together something realistic – simply because it remembers. It relies on the empirical but bases its final verdict on emotion. It simply wants to believe.

Have you ever heard of the Phantom Limb Phenomenon?

Yeah, well, it seems that when someone close to you in your life passes away, you experience the same kind of thing.

Phantom Mom Phenomenon.

No, it’s not what you think. My mother has not appeared to me in a shimmering, white form next to my bed insisting I buy a replacement pumpkin Mickey ball.

At least, not that I am aware of.

No, I’m talking about that phenomenon where you swear that person is really still there. Still alive. Still sitting in her office in her DC home playing solitaire at her computer with one cigarette smoldering in her ashtray, furry slippers on her feet and an Ensure on ice on the desk.

My father knows what I’m talking about. Without thinking, he has caught himself calling out her name while waking up in the morning. He finds himself picking up her usual groceries at the store. He assumes she is home when he arrives, her shoes tucked neatly by the door seemingly filled only minutes before.

I struggle in my own ways too. I assume that the call coming in from “DC Home” on my cell is always my mother – as it has been for years. And even when it’s my father’s voice, it takes a moment to register because my mind has simply given my mother’s voice a little extra gravel and depth – she just needs to clear her throat. No wait. She’s dead. It’s Dad. Whoa. Ok. Hi Dad.

And I have been having these recurring dreams recently. Or maybe they’re nightmares. I’m not sure. To put it in the words of the lovely Beyonce, it could be a “sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare“. Whatever you call it, my brain convinces me on a regular basis that my mother is in fact very much alive.

Cruel isn’t it? Although I am guessing this is all probably very typical. Nevertheless, here’s how my dream goes…

In my dream, my mother’s death is only her family’s collective nightmare. In my dream, it is early in the morning and we are all gathered in front of my living, breathing mother. Fresh from our beds, we stare in utter shock, while she stares back at us and laughs. We tell her we thought she was dead. “I’m FINE” she insists. “No really.” And she looks back at us again like we’ve lost our ever-loving minds. And then we ask her how she pulled off the memorial service, the whole casket thing. “Because Mom, you really looked dead.” But she seems to insist we all just had some doozy nightmares. No big deal. She is currently alive and well. And then she goes into full “Mom mode” listing off all the chores we need to accomplish, which stores we need to hit first, full of sass, full of too much “get up and go” that instinctively makes me roll my eyes and prepare myself to become her daylong personal assistant. It’s so real. She IS alive in that dream. And in the end we are all entirely convinced, shaking our heads at our assumptions, letting the nightmare fade away. It was just a bad dream. My mother isn’t dead. Phew, phew (even though we have to do chores now), PHEW.

But of course I wake up and she is dead. And that wonderful dream seems more like a nightmare. As wonderful as that moment was, the truth unlocks a fresh wave of grief. My brain, the tricky minx, brought her back to life. My brain knew exactly how to make her breathe and talk and task-master us with chores once again. My brain had convinced me.

Not cool.

But why do I have the urge to call my brother when I wake up and share with him that she’s actually fine? That she insisted she was, no REALLY.

Who knows. I mean, our brains are pretty smart things, right? And they may know something our rational, consciousness does not. Something could actually be setting off alarm bells deep within telling us she IS here. Somehow. Around. And fine. Whether she is real because of our rich, vivid memories, or she is now something more other-worldly and deeply spiritual. Maybe she is filling her own void in a new and different way.

I believe that. I do. But still. She’s gone. And my brain and I miss her.

My mom spent the last four Halloweens with us. She loved watching the kids get dressed up and carve pumpkins. She gladly held down the the fort and gave out candy while we set off to trick or treat. And last year, she helped me make a ghost for our front yard. I remember her finding the perfect gauzy material from the store. I remember her confidently running her hands over it, knowing exactly how much would work. After all, she had made these for my brother and I many years in a row, many years before. And before I knew it, she had created the very same ghost I grew up with, fresh from my childhood.

So yes. This Halloween, her ghost is here. In some way or another. In my dreams. In my memories. In my front yard. Or how she more often feels – only a breath away, over my shoulder, wishing me peace and whispering “I’m FINE. No really.”

My mother was a stubborn woman. When she wanted something and she felt strongly about it, she gleefully dug right in. Logic often played a part in her decision making. But sometimes it did not. Sometimes she dug in simply to boldly stamp herself on a debatable issue – and she often did it in spite of herself. You think this idea is silly? Well, guess what. I’m doing it no matter what you think. Sometimes this tendency of hers made us crazy. But most times, it could be downright endearing – in a maddening sort of way.

And that’s what happened with my mother’s Disney car antenna decorative Mickey balls.

Let me back up a bit here.

When my mom passed, I got her car. And I don’t care what you think about such a thing, I felt really weird about it. Yes, I know we needed a new car desperately. And yes, her car had very few miles on it. And yes, I know, she would have wanted this but still. It felt plain weird.

Like throwing away her toothbrush, like tossing her favorite breakfast drinks, like rummaging through her personal things in the days following her death – taking her car seemed like one more thing I was taking away from her previously organized life. It was another way to officially proclaim her time using these things was over.

This car that she loved so much. This car, a practical shade of red so that she could spot it easily in the parking lot, would never be driven by her in that kind of jerky way that I tried not to hassle her about. This car of hers, that I’m now driving through the car line at school pick up, that I am now playing my music in, that now has two car-seats strapped into the back – this car, I don’t care what that title says now, it is still hers.

Before we drove her car to Florida a couple weeks following her memorial service, I grabbed a bag of hers that I knew came with this car’s ownership. I could not leave with out it. It was a bag of seasonally appropriate Disney car antenna decorative Mickey balls.

Yes, there is obviously a story about those decorative Mickey balls. And here it goes.

A few years ago, my mother was in Downtown Disney with all of us and bought one lone Christmas themed Mickey ball. When she got home to her car, she plonked it right on her antenna. And my Dad hated it. He was NOT a fan. Not that it was his car, but he was happy to announce he thought that seasonal Mickey ball was silly nevertheless.

Well. That simply fueled her fire. During her next visit down to Florida, my mother bought an entire kit of decorative Mickey balls for her antenna. She proudly owned Christmas, Valentine’s day, Easter, 4th of July, Halloween and Thanksgiving. Except that she lost Halloween in a car wash. My father was over-joyed, until she stomped right out and plonked Thanksgiving onto her antenna. So there. It became a running joke between both of them. He shook his head at her while she religiously changed those damn Mickey balls as the seasons went by. Plus, much like her own mother (who used to tie gaudy, plastic flowers to her antenna), it was yet one more practical identification aid used while searching for her car in a parking lot. Oh yes, the red car with the Santa Mickey decorative antenna ball, that’s my mother’s car. My father would laugh and grumble under his breath and she would tromp ahead in the parking lot. She had dug in and that was that.

So today we put up our fall decorations. I hauled out the ghost lights and plug-in pumpkins and the favorite “trick or treat, smell my feet” sign that now hangs in our family room. The seasons are changing (in spite of the heat in Florida) and it was time to decorate appropriately. And once everything was out of its boxes and set up just so, I went into my room and found the bag of those dreaded Mickey Mouse balls. I rummaged around, knew I wouldn’t find the pumpkin, but pulled out the pilgrim Mickey ball instead. Then, I marched out to the garage, pulled off the 4th of July Mickey she had put on there months ago, and plonked that pilgrim right on.

Sure, I live in Florida and kind of cringe at that seasonal Mickey antenna ball. I mean I heart Disney for sure, but I try to be cool about it. Real Floridians wouldn’t sport Disney all over their car, right? But this isn’t a Floridian’s car. This is my mother’s car. And it is my very small, very silly but fully meaningful tribute to her.

Mom, I know you love that it’s on there. Happy Halloween. We miss you with the changing of every season.

So I should be blogging about something funny about my kids. Or some political issue that’s got my panties in a bunch. Or whatever new beastie has been spotted in my backyard.

But. I don’t feel like it.

I’m having a bad day. Yep. ANOTHER one.

It’s a strange thing, this grieving business. I used to think that when you lost someone in your life, it was like some horrible sickness. And in the beginning its very bad, and you need to tend to it and care for yourself and heal. But – given enough time – you get over it and come out well again, on the other side.

I was very wrong. Grief, who I’ve come to know very well, apparently sticks around. In fact, while it may stay out of the way more and more often, it never ever leaves. So I am working on making room for this very unwelcome newcomer in my life. The “new normal” I hear it’s called.

And still, grief springs from the shadows daily, like some over-served, sweaty, far too grabby guy in a bar forcing himself on me, grabbing my wrists and spinning me through some sorrowful dance when I least expect it. I am overwhelmed, I hold back tears – and then push it back and storm away. I don’t want to dance. I don’t have time for that. Cripes. Leave me alone already.

I know I should expect to be sad. I know I know, my mom died only a month ago. A month ago today exactly in fact.

(One entire month, impossible to believe, I wish it hadn’t been so long since she passed, I wish her life was more recent, I wish so much hadn’t happened since that I want to tell her about. And thus the explanation for my bad day.)

But I am sick of thinking about it. I’m sick of being so bummed out all the time, I am sick of being broken hearted, I am sick of making people sad around me, I am sick of not being myself and forgetful and not as functional. And unmotivated, and so damn tired, and guilty.

Did I mention the guilt by the way? Guilt is grief’s BFF. They hang in the corner together and cackle away about how miserable they make me. But guilt is a little smoother than grief I think. She saunters up innocently, leans into my ear and whispers questions. “So. Your mother drove you a little crazy didn’t she? What kind of daughter were you anyway to her? You could have come and visited her more often, right? She was alone when she died, wasn’t she? Do you even remember the last time you saw her?”

But if I ask these questions out loud, my loved ones balk and huff back at me that I was a wonderful daughter and I should not be feeling that way and insist that my mother would want me at peace right now.

I know I know. Guilt never makes any sense. But its very very real. She has made herself at home, carefully putting ideas in my head and slipping away while I crumple to floor. I hate her.

So yeah. Here I am. On a bad day. Missing my mother who I lost a month ago today. Wishing I could call her. Wishing her remains weren’t neatly sealed in some wooden box back in her bedroom – doing nothing, saying nothing, being nothing.

Yeah, oh this blog is AWESOME now. Woo hoo! So fun to read! I am so depressing I bet I make depressed people run screaming in the other direction. That’s me. A regular Debbie Downer blogger. (Insert trumpet sound effect: wah, waaaahhh….)

My new name? Mourningside Mom. Heh.

At least I have my sense of humor, right? And I have my family. And my wonderful boys who force the square peg of normalcy into my round hole of a day. And my husband who lets me put my ear to his chest to hear his heart beat and affirm that he is alive and loving and here.

All will be well. All will be well. All will be well.

My three year old is asleep. My six year old is tossing a baseball to himself in my parent’s living room, side stepping baskets of dying flowers. My father is away, following up with the tasks of an executor. And I am sitting at the dining room table, surrounded by recently printed off pictures of my mother.

But there is one new addition to our family here too. It has slipped suddenly into our lives while the reality of my mother’s passing sinks in. This new member is grief.

When I first stepped back into my parent’s house, only a day after my mother was found here, grief was looming and effusive, filling every space. While I sat on her bed, it wrapped itself around me and held on tightly. Breathing seemed impossible.

But then the tasks of death pushed grief into the shadows for a time. Tasks almost as horrendous as grasping the concept that my mother is gone. Grief waited though and wound itself back around my heart during the most unexpected moments until I was able to beat it back again. We all had so much to do.

I was asked how I found the strength to speak at my mother’s funeral. Well. All of it, everything we’ve had to do has been horrifying and equally difficult to do. Finding an appropriate funeral home. Picking out an urn. Picking out a cremation casket. Discussing the process of embalming. Picking out her last outfit. Slipping on her wedding ring. Doing her last load of laundry, washing away her scent from her clothes. Cleaning her last dishes in the sink. Searching through her pictures, looking for her face before I forget any of it. Writing her obituary. Informing her friends and neighbors. And speaking besides her open casket at her funeral.

All of it. Equally horrifying. And equally impossible – however absolutely necessary – to do.

Grief slinks back into the corner more often as the days go by. But it is always there. Waiting for a peaceful moment. Waiting for me to find some trinket of hers or for some memory to come rushing back. Waiting for me to drive her car and see her hands – my hands – on the steering wheel. Grief finds its opening. It slips back over my shoulders, holding me close, muffling out the world, overwhelming my senses, until sadness flows through my soul, oozes back out of my body and ebbs again.

I’m getting used to it being there. As I am getting used to her death.  I have become familiar with the cycle grief assumes in my day to day life. It must process through. I can’t do much else other than brace myself, wait for it make it’s mark and move along. It always does.

However we are desperately grateful for our best booster against grief – my mother’s greatest acheivement: her grandchildren. Their laughter, their games, their wonder, their constant expectation of regularity push grief further away and into a very small place where we can all watch it from the corner of our eyes. Children allow us to cope and move forward. Children officially prove to us that the world keeps spinning and her love lives on through them.

While my three year old continues to nap, I am off to start the process of clean up. We certainly don’t want to scour this place of my mother’s presense (we will never be ready for that), but its time to throw away her toothbrush, her recently purchased make-up, pack her hair brushes, toss out that last cigarette butt of hers and wash her ashtray, put away her bedside items, discard her overly worn slippers and store her clothes. All of it is equally horrifying, with grief nipping at my heels and my son tossing his ball in the air amoungst the flowers and pictures in the living room. Onward.

I found out this morning that my mother has passed away.

It was not expected. She was far too young. Writing these words seem shocking. The world around me has just came to a screeching, violent, shuddering halt.

We were supposed to drive up to see her today in fact. And when I got the call from the house, I expected her voice on the line, asking if we were on the road yet.

It wasn’t her. It was someone else. My mother was gone.

And all day I have hidden myself in a hotel room, making calls, sharing news, calming people, trying to calm myself, at times shaking too much to dial the phone, at times numb - my fingers only vaguely tingling, at times laboring to breathe, at times gripped throughout with such unexpected surprising pain, I cry out.

Grief.

It’s odd. I feel like I am watching myself from the outside in. Watching the shadows of this loss pass over me again and again. I mean, how are people supposed to act when they find out their mothers have died? Whats the norm for this sort of thing? I look around, wondering what emotions come next, what guilt, what anger, what wonder.

And then the “what ifs”. They come a lot too.

My mother. I pray for her peace. For her inner joy to beam through where ever she is. Who knows. Maybe she’s actually just sitting here on the bed next to me. Or maybe she’s swimming in some heavenly ocean, the way she used to, with her enormous glasses still on, hair somehow still dry, floating, belly up and toes up, rocking and bobbing away, free, happy, peaceful.

Honestly? I really hope she’s there and not here. This bed covered in kleenex and haphazard notes about funeral details and phone numbers is really not such a party.

This is really no place to spend your first day in heaven.

My mother. Rest, feel peace, enjoy your ocean. I miss you. I love you. I am without you.