Sunday, 28 February 2010 -- Day 70

I'm going to write in the morning today to look at the day w/ anticipation rather than reflection. This day certainly holds much promise w/ the sunshine, more humane temps, and no wind. Today I'm anticipating my birthday lunch w/ my husband and daughters. My birthday isn't until Wednesday, March 3rd, but on the Sunday before we go to the Dry Dock over at the lakes. So I anticipate a good meal on a sunny Sunday w/ my loving family beside a frozen lake where ice shacks sit like chess pieces and an old car waits for the spring thaw to make someone a lucky lottery winner. I anticipate a day of chipping away, not at the ice as I did yesterday, at some of those little jobs that were making me frustrated and overwhelmed two days ago.

My cousin from Colorado sent me some pictures that were taken in July of 1986 on a trip that my mom and dad had taken to visit Mom's brother and his family. At that time, Mom was 56 but she looked like she was 46. At that time in her life she was anticipating enjoying her grandchildren, returning to work in the school cafeteria, teaching her Sunday School class, and go to Texas the following year to watch me graduate from college. One picture shows Mom and her brother sitting on the floor on either side of the chair occupied by their Aunt Maysie, who was my mother's mother's sister and who lived well into her 90's. Mom is leaning on the arm of the chair as if she had been anticipating hearing stories about her mother and grandparents. Her brother, Arthur, is leaning back looking over his shoulder and smiling at Aunt Maysie.

I guess at this point I should provide some background. Mom was born in Colorado in 1930, but in 1933 her mother was severely burned in a house fire and died a couple of weeks later. My mother and her infant sister, Irene, were taken by their father by train to Iowa to live w/ relatives. Arthur was left in Colorado w/ Aunt Maysie. When my grandfather returned to Colorado, Aunt Maysie had placed Arthur in an orphanage. For whatever reasons, the Depression, or being a new widower, or both, my grandfather left Arthur in the orphanage until he was old until to leave on his own. As I look now at this picture w/ the smile exchanged and the close proximity between Arthur and his aunt, the woman who sent him away, there is no animosity or vindictiveness. There probably was at some point; I think I recall Mom mentioning it. But at some point in the years b/w 1933 and 1986, they obviously reached an understanding and were able to move on to enjoy a bond that only family can truly share.

I guess today what I'm anticipating most is being able to move on: to remember, to honor, to accept, to keep a bond w/ my family, and to get past the dark days of grief.

Saturday, 27 February 2010 -- Day 69

I ended up thinking today, despite what I said in my previous post about not wanting to think. I thought about why I ended up being so pissy yesterday. I think I've figured it out. It's that time in the semester when a lot of assignments are coming dues: speeches, exams, case studies. Everything, all at once plus laundry, a dirty house, this Save the Music campaign and helping w/ Post-Prom fundraisers are making me feel overwhelmed. Once I recognized the cause, I could follow Mom's advice about tackling jobs that seem overwhelming. She always said to just start at one spot and work your way through, tackling a little bit at a time and before you know it the work is done. Well, the work's not done, but I've made a dent and that has me moving in the right direction. And moving in the right direction is always a good thing for chasing away the pissiness.

Friday, 26 February 2010 -- Day 68

Today started out to be such a bright and beautiful day. The birds were actually singing this morning when I walked the dog. Somewhere along the day, however, things turned pissy. I don't know why. I don't want to think about how. I don't want to think at all. Just want to sleep. So very, very tired.

Thursday, 25 February 2010 -- Day 67

There's one way in which I'm more blessed than my siblings and my dad. I get to see Mom when I look in the mirror, and when I peel potatoes, and fold fitted sheets (apparently this is a lost art form), and get involved in community projects and organizations. It's true I am like my mother in many, many ways, but I'm very different in just as many. Mom was a staunch Republican, and I'm so far to the left on most issues that I'm almost off the map. We didn't discuss politics at family gatherings. I'm proud to be my mother's daughter, but I'm not her.

Maybe this had some bearing on a part of my dream last night. In it, I was sitting at a kitchen table w/ three nondescript people. I offered each one of them a garlic-stuffed olive, a delicacy to which my friend Lora introduced me. Each one of the three at the table tried it and spat it out in disgust. I didn't even try to look this one up on my favorite dream interpretation website so I'm going solo. Maybe I feel like I'm trying to get people to do something that I know is good for them, but they're resisting. I am moderating a community action campaign right now to oppose budget cuts in music at our public school so maybe that's what it's about. Or maybe I'm afraid some of what I've posted in this blog has left a bad taste in some people's mouths. Or maybe I'm just feeling rejected. Or maybe I shouldn't eat garlic-stuffed olives just before bedtime.

Another way that I'm like Mom is that I turn to writing to work through my feelings. I may not always find the answers, but at least I feel like I made some headway toward the problem.

Wednesday, 24 February 2010 -- Day 66

I got nothing. I've been sitting here at the computer for 15 minutes, and I got nothing.

I'm tucking in my daughter and going to bed. Hope this writer's block is only temporary.

***********************************************************************************

Well, I tried to go to bed but can't sleep. Maybe I've got something to say after all.

My older daughter and I drove to her boyfriend's basketball game in Algona, a town about an hour away. I love these little trips when I can be alone w/ one or both of my girls to just talk or be silly or just be. So as we're talking about the college philosophy class that she's taking right now and their discussion today, I was reminded of my own college philosophy class so I mentioned that my philosophy professor liked to smoke dope..........., and one time a few of us joined him. She was shocked, and I was shocked for having told her that, but the cat was out so I continued. I told her how the half dozen times that I tried marijuana was only after I'd already had several beers and found the "nerve in a bottle" to try some weed. Again, maybe not a smart revelation for a mother to her teenage daughter. So I went on to say how the combination always had the negative result of me ending up in a bathroom puking. Maybe I get marked down on the "mom scale," but I think I should get marks for showing my daughter that I'm human, or at least I was 27 years ago.

Sharing this w/ my daughter then reminded me of the time when I was a freshman or sophomore in college, and Mom came up for a Mother/Daughter Weekend. It was the first time I could ever remember her going anywhere w/o Dad. Aside from the campus activities, she and I went out on the town one night. In a college town, that meant we went bar-hopping. Keep in mind that the drinking age was 19 back then so this part was legal. Also, by this time I was smoking cigarettes freely in front of my family. Again, there was no age limit on purchasing tobacco products back then. So I remember sitting at this one bar listening to a band when Mom asks me if she can try a cigarette. I almost fell over in my chair. At 50+ years of age, she wanted to do something she'd never done before. I gave her one, don't know if she smoked the entire thing, but it was the first time I recall seeing my mother as a woman and not just my mom. It was a good feeling. I hope my daughter felt the same way tonight.

Tuesday, 23 February 2010 -- Day 65

Sucker-punched. I know I've used this expression before, but that's the best description I've found thus far that fits the gut-wrenching blast that seemingly comes out of nowhere to jolt me into melancholy. These sucker-punches always come just when I think I'm starting to get a handle on this grieving stuff.

Today was basically a good day due in part, ironically, to the bad weather b/c I was able to spend the afternoon w/ my daughters. We did some shopping here in town, one stop being printing pictures. When we returned home, my older daughter showed me a picture of her seated b/w my mom and dad w/ our Shi-Tzu on her lap. They all three were seated on the loveseat on the four-season porch where Mom and Dad spent many happy hours during the last 13 years. Mom was wearing one of my grandmother's aprons that always reminds me of a paint shirt that I wore in Kindergarten. You know the kind w/o sleeves that snaps shut in the front to protect your good clothes. Under the apron Mom was still dressed in her Sunday best. As I looked closer by the sunlight from my kitchen window, I noticed this was what Mom was wearing Sunday, November 29, 2009, when we celebrated our family Thanksgiving. That meant this was the last picture taken while Mom was alive. Eleven days after the picture was taken, Mom was gone. I remembered that weekend very well b/c I was a little disgusted at how my niece was snapping all kinds of pictures of Mom w/ her children as if this would be the last time they would be photographed together. Turned out it was, and I was in denial. And as a result, I'm not in any of the pictures w/ Mom that weekend. My niece was actually quite thoughtful w/ her picture-taking b/c she was working on a memory book that Mom got to enjoy for the next week-and-a-half.

Today, having the sun illuminate this picture and the memory of that day brought that raw pain back. I didn't succumb to the gasping sobs that would've crippled me two months ago, but the tears came quietly. I asked my daughter in a high-pitched voice that sounded nothing like me, if I could have a copy. Then I walked downstairs to put away the last of the groceries.

Dad has been going through the photo albums that Mom compiled as well as all the loose pictures that she never got around to organizing. I know this is a huge step for him, especially since he never really seemed to get much pleasure out of looking at them when Mom was alive. But those pictures, which I've perused hundreds of times, have made their way into pleasant memory while this picture today was too new and too fresh. Because of its recency, I was caught off-guard. No matter how much we try to prepare ourselves for death, the reality of it still feels like a sucker-punch to the gut.

Monday, 22 February 2010 -- Day 64

I wrote a poem today, and it had nothing to do w/ death or dying or grieving. It's a silly poem about walking the dog in the winter. It's not one of my best, but at least my creative side is starting to look toward life and living and finding humor in every day activities. I think that's a positive sign. Right now I'm not sure which I miss more, my mom or laughing. I hope some day soon it doesn't have to be an either or.

WALKING THE DOG ON A WINTER’S DAY
by Mari Miller Burns

Snow pants first, zipped up tight
Boots on left then on right.
Neck gator, cap
Dog’s still taking a nap.
Rouse her to Velcro on her coat
Clip on leash to the collar at her throat.
Time for my coat, scarf to fill the gaps
Gloves on, ready to make some laps.
One step, two step, squat and pee
Three step, four step, that's the dog, not me.
Race back toward the door
No need to do more?
Gloves off first to remove the leash.
Undo the Velcro coat of fleece.
Up the stairs she runs to take a seat
Looking down, waiting for her treat.
Scarf off me and onto the hook
Coat next with hat and gator in the sleeve's crook.
Boots off right then off left, opposite before
Snow pants finally, didn’t I just do this chore?
Dog happy and ready to bark at passers-by
Me exhausted and ready to cry.
Tired of winter’s cold hold of ice and snow galore
That forces this ritual dressing and undressing just to step out the door.

Sunday, 21 February -- Day 63

Marie Osmond claimed she put on so much weight while caring for her dying mother due to having to eat mostly fast food. I can see how this could happen if you're constantly just wanting to run out and grab something quick.........quick means fast food.........and fast food means excessive calories. My friend Lora just did a post in her blog, http://www.loradtasteofsuccess.blogspot.com, about making your own fast food at home.

I wasn't able to be w/ my mom 24/7 as Marie Osmond was so I didn't fall into the fast food trap. I, however, just haven't felt like eating period. I eat b/c I have to, but there's not much pleasure in it. And since there's no pleasure in it, I have to force myself even to cook. I still marvel at all the meals my mother cooked; three meals a day for over six decades. Dad used to always go home for dinner even when he was working. Neighbors could always set their clocks by Dad's prompt arrival at noon each workday. W/ Mom's cooking, who could blame him! Mom had this amazing ability to open the refrigerator door, pick up all the leftovers from the previous meals, and turn them into something new. (As an aside here: I originally typed the present tense verb, "has this amazing ability." I guess I've used that expression a lot in the past, and this is the first time I've used it lately). I just don't have her knack and love for meal planning and preparation.
I'd be content to live on peanut toast for breakfast, peanut butter sandwich for lunch, and peanut butter and crackers for dinner. But if I did that I'd probably need NutriSystem myself.

Saturday, 20 February 2010 -- Day 62

Two of the rings that I now wear once adorned my mom's hands. One was given to her by my oldest brother and the other by me. The one I gave her has a bit of history. I was married once before, but it only lasted 15 months. About 15 years after the divorce, I took the engagement and wedding rings and had them remade into another setting. I wore it for awhile until my second husband decided he didn't like the idea of me wearing diamonds given to me by another man. Fair enough, so I gave it to Mom. In addition to the rings from my brother and me, my sister also gave Mom a diamond ring. Each of us seemed to be compensating for or recreating Mom's engagement ring that became so thin, it broke about 50 years ago. She had always talked about either getting it fixed or getting another one. Money was always tight when we were growing up, and Mom never felt she could splurge on such a personal item. Once my siblings and I were older, we decided to do the splurging. I guess in a way that means we were all engaged and committed to Mom.

When Mom passed, the funeral director asked which jewelry pieces we would like for the viewing, and which pieces we would like back. We asked for the rings except for her wedding band. That ring had never left her finger in almost 63 years, and that's where it will stay forever. I'm wearing the two rings now, even the one that I gave her. My husband is okay w/ it. Mom cleansed it of any curse or bad vibes. They're beautiful rings, but I'd surrender them in a heartbeat if it would bring Mom back. Guess that's what's meant by the bargaining stage of grief.

Friday, 19 February 2010 -- Day 61

One of the last times I sat w/ Mom outside their home late last summer, she looked at her flower beds and saw all the weeding and pruning that needed to be done. I had worked on them previously, my brother had worked on them, and some watering and weeding fairies had even snuck over to pitch in. Yet, as we sat there together, she was focusing on the work that needed to be done rather than enjoying being together in the beautiful late summer sunshine. I know I've done the same. I was raised on the philosophy that you work first and play later. Somehow later didn't always come, or when it did I was too exhausted to enjoy it. I remember thinking while sitting w/ Mom then that I didn't want to become this.....worrying more about what needed to be done rather than appreciating all that had been done. Mom was always appreciative so please don't think that she was never satisfied. But I want to learn how to play first and work later; my husband has been trying to teach me this lesson for 18 years. Tonight I'm going to be a good pupil, and cut my post short so I can go downstairs and visit w/ my daughter.

Thursday, 18 February 2010 -- Day 60

Last night when I called Dad, I got the answering machine. Guess that means when I was there last weekend I fixed it. It was absolutely wonderful to hear Mom's voice, and I smiled this time instead of crying. Thinking of the answering machine made me think of the message I erased last weekend. In the message I heard Dad talking to a woman whose voice was flat and lifeless. They were talking about daily activities, meals, the weather. I couldn't at first distinguish to whom he was talking. As I listened longer and closer, I discovered the woman Dad was talking to was me, in a conversation we had about a month ago. I didn't even recognize my own voice. Now I understand that most people say they sound differently in recordings. This is typical, but that's not what it was. I know what I sound like; I've heard myself on audio and video enough to know, and this recording sounded nothing like me. Normally my voice is full of vocal variety and enthusiasm.......I am a communication instructor, after all. The only explanation I can muster is that I've been functioning on auto-pilot, on disconnect, detaching heart from head. In doing so, I've managed to survive 73 days without my mom, but, I've lost the essence of my being.

The last couple of days I've made a conscientious effort to get some of the "bubbliness" back into my voice and demeanor. I'm tired of just going through the motions, mostly I'm just tired. Still not sleeping very well. I seem to be falling into a pattern: toss and turn w/ little sleep for two nights then crash and burn on the third night and start the pattern over. I think tonight is the drop-into-bed-completely-exhausted night. Can't effervesce w/o rest, and I must sound more perky when talking to Dad. How can I cheer him up sounding like a droll troll?

Wednesday, 17 January 2010 -- Day 59

I talked a few nights ago about some kind of handbook for grieving. My friend Lora pointed me in the direction of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross and her 1969 book, On Death and Dying. I remember hearing of the book, and I've heard of the stages of dying, although I didn't remember how many, but I didn't recall her name. I probably learned it during a psychology course in college, but it's been long forgotten. One of those situations where, "If you don't use it, you lose it." Only in this case, I didn't plan on losing anyone so I didn't feel the need for using it.

Anyway, I reviewed her five stages. According to them, I reached the anger stage last night w/ the pick-ax. I must have been in the denial stage for over a year, ever since we first found out that Mom only had 2-3 years left. (What a horrible expression, as if she were a battery or a set of tires.) Not bringing Hospice in around last Thanksgiving was certainly the pinnacle of denial. The next stage after anger is bargaining. Can't imagine what I could possibly bargain for at this point. Maybe I'll recognize it when I get there. So apparently after I get done bargaining for whatever it is I can get out of a life already lost, I'll move into the depression stage. Here's where the whole idea of "stages" breaks down for me. I think I've been drifting in and out of depression for over two months. Apparently my connotation of stages is different from the experts. I think that I will leave one stage to enter the next; the amount of time spent in each stage will vary, but I'll progress from one to two to three to four to five. No skipping stages. But if the grieving stages are anything like Mark Knapp's Stages of Relational Development, not only can I not skip stages, but I could get all the way to stage four and then go back to stage two. Maybe I should just read her entire book instead of speculating b/c maybe I have the right idea for stages in that they are permeable and fluid, and I can move in-and-out and back-and-forth. Still the notion that making it to stage five, acceptance, means I've reached a nirvana, of sorts. I don't want to reach that point only to fear a relapse into anger or denial.

Tuesday, 16 February 2010 -- Day 58

I'm restless, frustrated, and pissed. Not exactly attributes to win me the mother- or wife- or teacher-of-the-year award. I'm going to try to figure out why I'm feeling all this.

We have three feet of snow on the ground, and it's so cold and windy that the only time I spend outside is walking the dog 20 minutes in the morning and again at night. Yep, that could make a person a little restless and stir-crazy.

My almost-14-year-old thinks I'm an idiot and couldn't possibly know anything about anything. I hope my mom never felt that way when I was almost 14. If she did, she never let on, and I never apologized. I hope she knew I didn't mean it. Yea, teenage daughters can be frustrating.

I'm pissed that I'm 150 miles from my dad and can't help him w/ the cooking and cleaning and laundry and just plain keeping him company. Some young woman from his church is doing the first and the last. No, it's nothing inappropriate. She's married w/ three kids and is young enough to be his granddaughter so I'm pissed that she gets to be there for him and I don't. Maybe I'm even a little jealous. Great....let's just throw another emotion into the mix. This is supposed to be helping me figure out the restlessness, frustration, and anger not adding more.

With all these emotions churning around, I turned to my piano for comfort and help me relax. I haven't really played since Mom passed away. Haven't really felt like it. Tonight was okay, not my best playing. My heart still isn't in it.

I tried a more physical approach to purge these emotions. I took a pick-ax to the snow and ice that has been building up at the end of our two driveways. But w/ each swing, I couldn't tell if it was the ice chips or the tears stinging my cheeks. There's nothing like taking a heavy object and smashing it into frozen water to clear the head and the heart. I'm sure my muscles will disagree tomorrow.

Maybe, just maybe......I don't know.....I'm feeling restless, frustrated, and pissed b/c my mom is dead. She's never coming back. I'm motherless. Did I mention that I'm also feeling cynical?

Monday, 15 February 2010 -- Day 57

When I was pregnant w/ my first daughter, I read the book, What to Expect When You're Expecting. It was very helpful for showing an expectant mother what each day, week, and trimester would bring physically and emotionally. I know there are numerous books about what to expect when becoming a mother. Why doesn't someone write a book about what to expect when you lose a mother? There's a plethora of writings on death and dying and grieving. I found an interesting article,http://ezinearticles.com/?Six-Steps-to-Take-When-Youre-Grieving-and-Cry-in-Public&id=1100360, that provides six ways to deal w/ public grief. It claims to be "Six Steps" as if by following one after the other will enable the griever to get from grief to happiness, but it's not a process of following step one then two then three. I want to know what to expect on day two, and day twenty-two, and day two-hundred and twenty-two. At least this article reassured me that my "grief spasm," as it called it, during my in-service meeting last Friday was normal.

The Denver Hospice Organization at http://www.thedenverhospice.org/ourservices/griefservices/Pages/WhattoExpectWhenGrieving.aspx, provides comprehensive lists of What to Expect When Grieving. It covers the physical, emotional, spiritual, and many more aspects that a person will encounter when grieving. But it still doesn't say, "On Day One you will feel like......." "On day 70 you will feel like...." "In your third trimester of grief, expect that...." Maybe grieving would be easier if we had manual to follow.

If doctors can know exactly what a woman goes through during gestation, why can't they tell me what I'm going through during devastation. Both involve physical and emotional changes. Isn't one just as equally predictable or unpredictable as the other?

I never received a handbook on how to be a mother; I continue to create one as I go along. I guess the same is true now that I'm motherless, and I guess that's what I'm attempting to do w/ this blog. Create as I go.

Sunday, 14 February 2010--Day 56

I took the crescent rolls out of the oven tonight for dinner using a ratty old potholder that Mom made for me a really, long time ago. But I can't throw it out. If you'd like to read more about such potholders, you can read my other blog at http://www.momentwithmari.blogspot.com, and click on the article entitle, True Confessions of a Potholder. I just re-read it, and it made me sad b/c at the time that I originally wrote it 15 months ago, Mom was still alive, and I mentioned her making pot holders for me in the article.

I've thought about whether I should continue to use the tea towels that she embroidered or put them away to keep them safe and in-tact. But if I put them away then I can't think about her each time I dry dishes. I spent a lot of years drying dishes while Mom washed....no dishwasher back then. Mom herself would scoff at the idea of not using something just b/c it was expensive or had sentimental value. She had an elephant pitcher that she always made hot, sweet tea in for my daughters when they were little. My mother-in-law informed me many years ago that the pitcher was probably worth over $100. When I told Mom, she just laughed and said it was worth more to have her granddaughters remember the tea parties w/ the elephant pitcher.

So I conclude that the pot holders and the tea towels are immaterial for the very fact that they're material. The intangible memories they stir are much more important, so they'll stay out and visible and used.

Saturday, 13 February

Dad is now the keeper of the fire. He's responsible for "keeping the home fires burning." And he's doing admirably, considering he's been forced into the position. Nothing major has changed in the house aside from Mom's physical presence. In fact those shoes that I mentioned in one of my first few entries are still situated on the back porch just where Mom took them off over two months ago. He still picks them up when he sweeps and then returns them to the same position. He has made some subtle changes, however. For example, he's taken to sitting in Mom's chair when eating. Growing up we each had specific chairs that we occupied for meals, and when we travelled, we each had specific spots in the car. Visitors and new members of the family quickly learned which chair was Papa's, and you deferred to him when he was in the room. Much like a king and his throne, but it seemed only right and fitting. Yes, Dad sitting in a different chair is subtle, but the more I think about it, it's huge. When I asked him why he was sitting in a different chair, he simply replied, "B/c it's where Mom always sat." Another subtle change today is that he decided to use a different pair of sheets on the bed. To stop using the last set that Mom slept on. This doesn't mean he hasn't washed the sheets in two months, b/c he is diligent in his routine of taking off the sheets each Saturday morning, washing them, and returning them to the bed immediately. Today, however, we put a different set on, and I folded the other set and put them away for awhile. I find this symbolic of Dad starting to put his grief away, a little at a time. It will never be gone, and he's the first to admit it, but he's making strides toward getting on w/ things. I think I am too, but just when I think that, I start to regress as w/ yesterday's episode. For the most part, the house is exactly how Mom left it. Each time I dust or clean the bathroom, I return things almost exactly where Mom had placed them.

Being now entrusted as the keeper of the fire, Dad was very talkative tonight about his childhood. He recounted numerous antics to my oldest brother and me. There was the time he was driving the dump rake, and the horses bolted causing him to somehow fly off the back. As they raced around the side of the farmhouse, they tipped over the gas-powered generator that was running Grandma's washing machine. He told how he and his friend Billy could get money for a certain number of front feet from pocket gophers. They'd sell them to the man, and when he placed them outside the back door, they'd sneak around the back, grab them, and sell them right back to him. This same friend helped him knock out pigeons in the hay mount w/ pitch forks. Another man in town would buy them, and w/ that money Dad and Billy would buy a pack of cigarettes. Dad's storytelling was on a roll by now, his deep chuckle starting off each new story as he first thought about what he did and then regaled us. There were several stories involving his cousin Paul, such as swimming in the large round cow tank, waiting until they heard the cows coming home to drink, then hiding under the water to jump out at them when they tipped their heads to drink. Dad's expression was priceless when telling how he and Paul would throw corn cobs at the chickens' heads, rendering them unconscious. And when he said that the chickens would just drop over, he'd demonstrate by tilting his head and closing his eyes. The final story I recall was he and Paul riding in a small cart pulled by a Shetland pony and knocking over the shucks of oats just recently stacked-up by the men. Knowing how hard Dad always worked, I found this last story hard to believe. For two hours, Dad talked not only of these childhood memories, but of the places where he "worked out." This didn't mean he went to a gym to work out, but that he went to live w/ area relatives and friends to help them work on their farms. From his stories, he definitely got a much better work out than most people do spending thousands of dollars at gyms and spas.

I guess I felt the need to write down some of Dad's stories b/c when he's gone, I'll have to help be the keeper of the fire. And occasionally, in passing, he mentions things he wants or doesn't want at his funeral. I talked to him today about how my husband and I will probably move in five years when our younger daughter graduates from the community college where I teach. He said he probably wouldn't be here to see that. I asked him if he was okay w/ that, and he said he was. He misses Mom a lot, and is working everyday to make sure he'll see her again.

Friday, 12 February 2010

After spending all day at in-service meetings, attending my daughter's basketball games, driving 150 miles in fog to visit my dad, I spent the last hour trying to hook into a rogue wireless signal on my brother's laptop (b/c I forgot the power cord to my laptop), only to discover the Internet is still connected on Mom's desktop computer. On top of all this my emotions have been on hyper-sensitive mode. Don't know if it's b/c I knew I was coming to Mom and Dad's, which will always be Mom and Dad's house even after it passes to new owners, but my pinball emotions are running the full gamut.

Listening to the motivational speaker at this morning's in-service session, I became overwhelmed by his story about a 78-year-old Wal Mart checker whose mother always taught him the value of treating people well and showing your appreciation of them. Yep, that one hit a little too close to home, and Mom's face appeared from that point on in his story. I tried to subtly wipe away the periodic tears that would well in my eyes, but it was a feeble attempt to stop the grief that inevitably sucker punched me and sent me fleeing to the bathroom to blow my nose and wipe my eyes. This in turn removed all my mascara and eye liner so I had to go out to my car to get my cosmetic bag from my suitcase that was already loaded for the trip to Mom and Dad's. Within the hour, however, I was laughing at lunch w/ my husband. I'm turning into "yo-yo girl." This is the name we gave our older daughter when she was younger b/c she could go from extreme distress to ecstatic laughter in under 30 seconds.

I've always been a very sensitive and emotional person, which is probably why I do better writing about my feelings than trying to verbalize them. I'm just naturally a sap for those touchy-feely stories. I can't even watch an episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition w/o a box of tissues at the ready. But for crying-out-loud (pun intended), when do I get to the point when I can sit in a stupid in-service meeting listening to the stereotypical motivational speaker w/o turning into a blubbering idiot? I wonder if Ty would give me an Extreme Makeover and use some sturdy two-by-fours to give me a backbone?

Thursday, 11 February 2010

Well, last night I said it for the first time. While talking to Dad, I said, "When Mom was alive...." It felt peculiar saying it, and as soon as the words passed my lips, I worried about upsetting Dad. He was already quite emotional knowing that yesterday was an anniversary of sorts....December 10th to February 10th.

I wondered how long it would take before I uttered those words. It feels too soon. I shouldn't be saying phrases like that for many, many more years. Not at least until I'm telling my grandchildren about the amazing woman their great, grandmother was. "When my mother was alive," will be the beginning of many wonderful stories.

Wednesday, 10 February 2010

I was back in the hospital today for my daughter's infusion, which means it has been seven weeks since I started this blog and nine weeks tomorrow since Mom's passing. In some ways it feels like an eternity since I've talked to her. I still find myself wanting to tell her things. I recently finished papering and painting my daughters' bathroom, and each time I walk into it I think, "I can't wait to show this to Mom." When my oldest brother sees it, he'll rave and ooh and aah like Mom would've, but he's over 175 miles away, recovering from surgery, and this stupid weather isn't conducive to travel.

In other ways it doesn't seem possible that it's been almost nine weeks since I talked to Mom. I can still hear her high, lilting voice announcing, "I'm hooo'ooome," and hear her giddy, childlike calling of our Shi-Tzu, "Kea, Kea, Kea." I called my dad a little bit ago, and since he wasn't answering I expected to hear Mom's voice on the answering machine. I remember now that I advised him to unplug the machine since it gets temperamental about erasing messages. I kinda wish he hadn't so I could hear her voice gently saying, "Please leave a message, we'll call back."

I still regret the last conversation we had in the hospital before the tube prevented her from responding w/ more than a head nod. I was chattering away about stupid, trivial topics such as what color to paint the foundation of my house next summer, and the snow storm we had just driven through. Despite being a communication instructor who teaches about interpersonal communication, when it comes to my personal life I can turn into a "Chatty Cathy" when I'm nervous or scared. And that last time while I sat on her bed, and she insisted I sit there on the bed w/ her rather than get a chair, I was scared as hell. I want to go back. I want a do-over. Yes, I did get to tell her why I loved her and why I was so very thankful for her, but that was me telling, not us talking.

When Mom got email a few years ago, we corresponded more than we ever had before. I still have a file folder in my email account labeled, "Mama Lucy." I re-read a post from 15 February 2007 where she talked about baking some oatmeal bread, making a quilt, doing laundry for my sister-in-law, and rescheduling her MRI b/c of an impending snowstorm. I want to go back, before she was sick; back to a time when we could just talk about normal, daily activities and intersperse our feelings of love and caring. I want her back, but that's not fair b/c then she'd be in pain again.

Tuesday, 09 February 2010

I'm dedicating this post to Renee, Bob, and Joe who suffered the loss of a husband/father in November, 2009 and a daughter/sister on February 4th, 2010.

I wish I had words to comfort you, but there aren't enough words or the right words to help at this time. Not having the right words has never stopped me from talking before so I can only hope that these words will help rather than hurt. And if silence is what you prefer then I guess you need never visit my blog again.

I cannot fathom the depth of your despair. What I do know is that you have many people who care about you and will support you in any way you need. All you have to do is ask. I know. It's the asking part that's difficult. We don't want to impose on others, and much of the time we just want to be alone w/ our grief. But in the days ahead when the quiet returns, I hope you'll ask. And if it's alright w/ you, in the days ahead when the quiet returns, I'll ask if you want to go to a movie or a concert.

But in as much as others can comfort and support, ultimately we must travel this grieving path toward healing on our own. And we must keep going, some days forward, other days backward. And when those days come when all we want to do is stay still b/c our limbs and our hearts are too heavy, we must keep going. If "a rolling stone gathers no moss" then "a person on the move eases the loss."

It’s not fair that you should have to lose Debbie when the loss of Tom is so very near. You’re right, Renee, this definitely sucks, and a few other expletives come to mind as well. I think I've said this before somewhere here in an earlier posting, but I think it's okay to ask God, "Why?". Asking this question doesn't mean we have doubts, it means we're seeking clarification. Any time we're trying to find the answers we take a step closer to God. And a step closer to God makes us one step closer to Tom, Debbie, and my mom. Maybe I can even help to answer that question right now. Tonight after we left the visitation, Kenzie got a phone call from a classmate w/ whom she had been close, but they had drifted apart during the last year. She called to tell Kenzie that she wanted things to be okay b/w them. Debbie did that. Her death breathed new life into a withered friendship.

I will ask God every night to please give you the strength to bear this burden. And the nights will be the most difficult, as well you already know. That's probably why I end up writing in this blog in the evenings. It's the time of day when the quiet returns and the pain is most raw. But even the night doesn't last forever.

Monday, 08 February 2010

It's getting harder and harder for me to remember what my lawn and my rock garden and my flower beds look like. There's over 20" of snow b/w green and me. So as I was snow blowing and shoveling yet again today, I wondered what those Peonies that I planted last summer are doing deep, deep under ground. Will they survive and spring to life again? Then that made me think about reincarnation and the circle of life and breaking free. Part of me wants to think that Mom's spirit has been born again in some infant born on December 10, 2009; to think that her "little light" is shining again in a newborn who will bring joy to all around her. Maybe someday, 18 or 20 years from now, I'll have that person in one of my classes. And as an old professor about to retire, I can share w/ that person the light of my mother. I want it to be possible for Mom's soul to be w/ God, while her spirit lives on w/ us here. After all, nothing God or Yahweh or Allah (I believe they are all one) has created really dies. The leaves that fall in the autumn simply provide room for the new growth in the spring. Those Peonies and Coreopsis and Sweet Peas are patiently waiting...gathering strength.

I don't want my memories of Mom to become so buried by the seasons that I forget how she looked and sounded and felt. Each time I think or write about her, she is reincarnated. A life well lived is one that is reborn in the hearts and minds of everyone she touched.

Sunday, 07 February 2010

We measure much of our lives by firsts. Our first smile, tooth, step, day of school, recital, prom, graduation. These markers help us gauge our development and productivity. We anticipate these milestones. As I look at the year ahead, I see a lot of firsts: the first Christmas w/o Mom; the first time I won't get a card from her on my birthday w/ some gift or mad money; the first Easter where she won't have the foil-covered, chocolate Easter eggs evenly divided so each grandchild and great grandchild can find the same amount; the first Mother's Day w/o her; missing her 80th birthday. I don't want to measure time this way, but I don't have a choice.

And this lack of power is frustrating, but this too is how we measure our lives. We mark time by the people to whom we relinquish control: first our parents then our teachers and coaches then our employers. We're either fighting for control or fighting w/ those who control us. We have either the choice to submit or the choice to fight. My mother always spoke of my independent nature almost from my first breath so you know that I fit into the latter category that's usually fighting for control or fighting against who try to control. And then there is death. Yes, some commit suicide or use euthanasia as a way to regain control. For the rest of us, however, we have no control over when God calls us home.

As I see it, we again have two choices: we can walk around pissed at this lack of power and grumble through life, or we can submit and let someone greater than ourselves take the reins. One of my favorite memories of our Cancun vacation last summer was playing in the ocean w/ my younger daughter. We started out body surfing, which we quickly learned is much more enjoyable if you just let the waves take you where they will. Walk out into the ocean, the waves push you to shore, and the undertow sucks you back out. Understanding this ebb and flow is much less exhausting than resisting it. What was even more exciting than body surfing, however, was lying on my back just where the water crashes onto the shore and allowing it to toss me anywhere and everywhere it chose, tumbling end-over-end and side-to-side. By completely submitting, it was a ride and a rush that beat any roller coaster. I felt like I was playing w/ God, and it was the first time I was completely free and empowered by allowing someone else to have control. There really is a first for everything.

Saturday, 06 February 2010

One of my all-time favorite books is The Peabody Sisters of Salem by Louise Hall Tharp. The two younger sister, Mary and Sophia, are probably best known for the men they married. Sophia married the writer Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Mary married the education reformer Horace Mann. The oldest sister, Elizabeth, never married and was the one I admired most....not b/c she never married but b/c she was an independent woman of the 19th century who spoke her mind and stood her ground. She said one of the most profound statements that I have kept w/ me since I first read this book 30+ years ago. She said that she wasn't very good at keeping a journal of her life b/c she was too busy living it to take time to write about. I must agree w/ you tonight, Elizabeth, b/c I'm going dancing w/ my husband so I'm too busy living to write about it.

Friday, 05 February 2010

It feels good to makes plans again, and to see Dad make plans. He left a message on my cell phone this afternoon, something he's never, ever done before, to tell me he wouldn't be home tonight b/c he was visiting his sister. Today he had lunch w/ one of my brothers 40 miles away and then drove to my other brother's house. He had done these things w/ Mom, but this was his first time venturing to these places on his own. He's been working out in his shop again making a picture frame for Mom's funeral folder. The point is he's moving forward. My grieving has been lessened by making plans and getting on w/ life, and now I see Dad starting to realize that no matter how much he grieves and misses Mom, she's not coming back. Moping around an empty house won't comfort him, and as cliche as it sounds, life does go on. It doesn't go on in a straight line, more of a jagged, criss-cross, willy-nilly, topsy-turvy pattern. I'm tired of being afraid and guilty for being alive so that means we make plans. Plans to travel to Europe this summer; plans to watch softball games and track meets; plans to play tennis again; plans to go to bed..........I'm pooped.

Thursday, 04 February 2010

She actually listens to me..........my older daughter that is. She was comforting a friend whose sister was tragically killed in a car accident this morning when she told him something I had told her when she was first diagnosed w/ Crohn's Disease. Her friend was questioning why God would let his dad die due to cancer three months ago and now take his sister who was only a senior in high school. And here's where she said something to the effect of, "We can't know why, but we have to trust that God believes we have strength to handle this b/c he doesn't bestow this type of suffering on just anyone." I don't know if I was more proud that she had listened to me, or that she had been comforting this friend. I must admit she showed greater faith than I b/c when I learned of the tragedy all I could say was "Why? Why would God put that family through such pain?"

Mom always took the attitude that someone, somewhere was always in worse shape than she was. All we have to do is open our eyes and our hearts to that suffering, and we'll realize that we're pretty lucky. Once, while at Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN, for one of my daughter's many doctor appointments, we were humbled by a man who had obviously suffered from severe burns. He no longer had any eyes, merely indentations where the sockets used to be, and his nose was only two slits. He chatted pleasantly w/ the man who served as his guide. After he left the elevator we had shared, my daughter and I looked at each other and said, "Makes you realize there's always somebody worse off than yourself."

The loss of my mother pales in comparison to the loss of a husband and a daughter; a father and a sister within three months of each other. I hope the father was there to guide his daughter to God's presence, and I hope Mom was part of the Welcoming Committee.

Wednesday, 03 February 2010

My unconscious mind seems to be in better shape than my conscious mind. First the unconscious.

Last night I dreamt that I was pushing my paternal grandfather in his wheelchair. We were in the woods, and I pushed him onto the porch of a cabin. I can still see his weathered face, white hair, and brace that he had to wear on his knee after a stroke. He told me to clear away some leaves below the porch, and when I got down there and started to clear away leaves and branches, a large spider, the size of a rat, scurried over my foot. I could feel the soft, furry underside of its bright, blue belly. I didn't scream, and I wasn't afraid, but when I looked up somehow Grandpa was standing beside me. According to http://dreammoods.com, dreaming about grandparents "symbolizes love, security, wisdom, and protection, " spiders are "symbolic of feminine power." It also said that seeing a spider means I'm feeling like an outsider, but it's a good thing I wasn't bitten by the spider b/c that would mean I have some unresolved conflict w/ my mother. Since the leaves were brown and withered on the ground, they represented sadness and loss. Even the porch is symbolic. Since I dreamt of an open porch w/o railings or enclosures, my personality is very outgoing. Basically it sounds like when I'm asleep I feel empowered and safe even while dealing w/ the loss of my mother. When I'm awake.........not so much.

Lately, in my waking hours, I've been worrying that other people I love will die. My husband is a line-haul driver, and I worry that, w/ all this snow and ice and fog, that he'll get into a fatal accident. Today my brother left a voice mail message on my cell phone. The way he started out the message made me jump to the conclusion that something bad had happened to a close family friend. Nothing did, but I had a momentary, sinking feeling that his message was going to be similar to the phone calls I received from him when Mom was in the hospital. I wouldn't say I'm paralyzed w/ fear, but maybe I have enough of it that my grandfather had to come protect me in my dream, and the spider had to remind me of my power as a woman.

Tuesday, 02 February 2010

I was contemplating writing something very brief tonight b/c I'm really tired and writing seemed like a lot of work. Then I thought about how hard Mom worked the last two years of her life and especially the last two months to fight the cancers and then the pneumonia. And she never complained. She just kept fighting. If the doctors said they wanted to do chemo or radiation or surgery, she said, "Okay," b/c she planned to fight to the end. She entered the hospital for the last time by ambulance b/c she was too weak to support herself. When I visited her the next day, Dad was rubbing lotion on her back, and with a thickness in his throat he said to her, "You quit on me, Ma. That's the first time you've done that." Living had just become too hard.

I've been thinking a lot today about the work ethic that my parents instilled in me. They had the American dream that hard work pays off, and whatever you want, you get it through hard work. But what if the effort isn't worth the result. Winter in Iowa requires a lot of work just to go outside, and is it worth it to freeze your fanny? When I lived in Texas, people who knew I was from Iowa would ask me if I had ever gotten tired of bundling-up each time I went outside in the winter. My response was that I didn't even think twice about it. It was just something we had to do, so we did it. Once I discovered there were places where I didn't have to wear four layers of clothing just to get from my house to my car, I began to notice just how much work I have to go through to live in Iowa in the winter. But this is my home so it's worth it, and maybe sometimes ignorance is bliss.

Relationships take work, and the more effort, the bigger the rewards. Sometimes I worry that I didn't work hard enough at my relationship w/ my mother. I know there were the early teens when I didn't think she knew anything, and my early 20's when I was too determined to make it on my own that I'm afraid she felt I didn't need her. I know I got the chance at the end to tell her that I loved her and needed here, but I don't think I did a very good job of showing that I needed her. That's something that's always been very difficult for me: to need others enough to let them help me. But needing and helping and loving are worthwhile, and anything worthwhile is worth work.

Looks like I was able to work harder tonight than I thought. That must mean this blog is worthwhile.

Monday, 01 February 2010

Here I am again at practically the 11th hour, writing my daily entry. My vision for this blog was that I would write every morning in anticipation of what the new day would bring in the grieving and healing process. But as usual, I'm using hindsight rather than foresight. With each post I've been reflecting on what I've done and felt rather than what I hoped to do and feel. I've let the days evolve, and sometimes erode, in a natural course. Perhaps instead I should take a more proactive approach and tell myself how I'm going to feel each day. Sorta like a self-fulfilling prophecy. Mom used to wonder how anyone could suffer from depression. She believed it was just a matter of convincing yourself to be happy, and you would be happy. She didn't think chemical imbalances in the brain were a legitimate excuse. I'm not sure if that made her naive, stubborn, or strong. Maybe all three.

Today was filled with living, which is the real reason my post is barely going to make it on the 1st of February. I communicated w/ three sections of students; watched my younger daughter play basketball and then dance; discussed music and art; learned that my older daughter and her fellow show choir members received a Division I rating at State; cleared the driveway and sidewalks of snow. Yes, I could've posted this morning in anticipation of all these activities, but I don't think it would've made me enjoy them anymore than I actually did. Life is about reflection just as much as it is about anticipation. In fact I'd say they are intricately and inescapably linked.

So here's my foresight for tomorrow...........the ground hog will hopefully see his reflection so we can anticipate spring is only six weeks away. Or is it if he doesn't see his reflection? I can never remember.