Maybe I'm callous. Sometimes I wonder about that. Am I cold hearted cause I have accepted that mom is gone? If so, where did the deep emotions come from. Is she settled in my heart? Is all of this internal debate a symptom of grief? Of being unsure of where I am in life, of where I believe mom went, what lies beyond death. Have I embraced the sadness or avoided it? Is there a questioning phase of grief? Is it that when I stop questioning I will find peace? Does peace equal not thinking? How do I know when I'm done? How do I know where I am in the stages? How do I connect with myself, because I feel very disconnected. Like there's a wall between myself and my emotions. Nothing is felt too deeply. Perhaps I never will feel deeply again.
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Day 25
I am still unsure what the work of grief is. It is undefined. It began that way and is continuing on that way. I feel like I'm floundering. Like I should be doing something but I don't know what it is. I want that peace in my heart. I don't know if I'm in denial over what occurred or if I've actually accepted it and am doing fine. I have no idea. No one can tell me. Am I mourning still? Someone I saw today for the first time this year told me she was sorry to hear about mom passing. I smiled my now familiar tight smile and said thank you. Yes, it was a rough time and moved past it because really,what is there to say.
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
Day 21
At the end of my suffering there was a door
I was ready to go. The waiting was anxiety inducing.
I didn't want the long goodbyes. I didn't want the knowledge that I was going. I didn't want the sadness. I went through life not dealing with emotionality well. In the end I was forced to deal with it. Mostly by shutting things out. I had my routine and I stuck with it and that at least made me comfortable if not content.
But through the door. I took my first timid step into the unknown. The lack of pain made me pause. The pep I felt confused me. I drew my shoulders back and took a deep breath of fresh crisp Fall air. A deep deep breath and I moved forward. But taking a look around I realized that I was on my porch. surrounded by our lovely flowers and the squirrels were dancing in the trees, waiting for me to toss them peanuts. No cars passed. The soft breeze rustled the tall tree tops. My bike was there. The bike that I rode a few times then had to give up on because I hadn't the strength or the will to build the strength. I hopped on and began to pedal down the path and the driveway until I reached the sidewalk.
As the front tire left our property the landscape became misty and I was on a gravel path with grape vines all around me. I pedaled on, looking at the mountains and the houses which were hundreds of years old. Small, modest homes. A woman about my age was outside hanging laundry on a line. She had a flowered scarf on her head, plain brown shirt and pants with an apron. I smiled hesitantly, and she waved back. On I went.
At the end of the vineyard the mist appeared yet again. Before me rose the Eiffel Tower surrounded by pink blossoms and tourists. The sun was setting behind the Tower as I rode on the pathway towards the monument I'd always wanted to see. The lights sparkled exactly as I thought they would.
There had been so much I'd wanted to see. I allowed life to limit me instead of taking changes or adventures. Now I am able to do anything I want and I have a full agenda for the next millennium.
I was ready to go. The waiting was anxiety inducing.
I didn't want the long goodbyes. I didn't want the knowledge that I was going. I didn't want the sadness. I went through life not dealing with emotionality well. In the end I was forced to deal with it. Mostly by shutting things out. I had my routine and I stuck with it and that at least made me comfortable if not content.
But through the door. I took my first timid step into the unknown. The lack of pain made me pause. The pep I felt confused me. I drew my shoulders back and took a deep breath of fresh crisp Fall air. A deep deep breath and I moved forward. But taking a look around I realized that I was on my porch. surrounded by our lovely flowers and the squirrels were dancing in the trees, waiting for me to toss them peanuts. No cars passed. The soft breeze rustled the tall tree tops. My bike was there. The bike that I rode a few times then had to give up on because I hadn't the strength or the will to build the strength. I hopped on and began to pedal down the path and the driveway until I reached the sidewalk.
As the front tire left our property the landscape became misty and I was on a gravel path with grape vines all around me. I pedaled on, looking at the mountains and the houses which were hundreds of years old. Small, modest homes. A woman about my age was outside hanging laundry on a line. She had a flowered scarf on her head, plain brown shirt and pants with an apron. I smiled hesitantly, and she waved back. On I went.
At the end of the vineyard the mist appeared yet again. Before me rose the Eiffel Tower surrounded by pink blossoms and tourists. The sun was setting behind the Tower as I rode on the pathway towards the monument I'd always wanted to see. The lights sparkled exactly as I thought they would.
There had been so much I'd wanted to see. I allowed life to limit me instead of taking changes or adventures. Now I am able to do anything I want and I have a full agenda for the next millennium.
Tuesday, June 28, 2016
Day 21
I remember
I remember mom sitting. Always sitting. She wasn't an active person which probably helped her though life because she discovered in her 50's that she had a dangerous congenital heart issue which could have killed her had she been over exerted. Thankfully, she never reached that point. Ok
She sat at her kitchen table. It was a bar height table and comfy chair. She would be puttering around online, checking emails or reading MSN news. Playing fake slots or solitaire. I remember being frustrated because at least every other week she had a computer issue. She would start "Lisa can you ele me ..." And I'd either laugh easily and say "what now" or if it had been a long day, give her a tight smile and say "sure thing". I fought hard to not make her feel like an old timer dated person who was well beyond computers or technology. She was, a little bit, but she did manage Facebook and kept in touch with everyone on there and via email. She was progressive!
She sat on the outdoor cushioned chair on her porch. I hated her smoking there She had agreed to smoke only outside of the house. Over the 7 years she lived with us she went through various incarnations of trying to stop smoking. The last time, I felt so delicate about the topic because invariably she got defensive and I got angry. But her body told her to quit and she did - magically. Too late. But still . The other weekend I scrubbed her porch. Washed down the siding and the Windows . Notwa wanting that enormously distasteful smoke odor to appear. Kinda half hoping it would.
I also remember her sitting on the porch waiting for Maddie to come home from school. they bonded so tightly and I also recall our many talks had sitting outside in the gorgeous weather. And mom's red long down coat which made her look like a Michelin man but that I got for her to keep her warm. Even though she was smoking, I still wanted to keep her warm. She read voraciously - simple, easy English my steroids. She loved to solve the mystery. Or she also played a ton of her word games. I kept trying to upgrade her to a better tablet, but she was so happy with the danged original kindle.
Mom sitting when I was little at our home, sitting on a chair by herself with either a dish of Breyeers chocolate ice cream in her lap or a handful ofpeanuts she shelled on her own. I never understood the work she put into this.
Mom active Not so much. I told her may times "move it or lose it" and I'm taking that advice myself. When I feel lazy and uninspired, "move it or lose it" comes into my mind and off I go.
I remember Mom sitting around the dining room table playing pinochle with her parents and her sister, aunt Jeanne. Jeanne is the only one still here. I can't imagine the loss she feels.
I remember mom sitting. Always sitting. She wasn't an active person which probably helped her though life because she discovered in her 50's that she had a dangerous congenital heart issue which could have killed her had she been over exerted. Thankfully, she never reached that point. Ok
She sat at her kitchen table. It was a bar height table and comfy chair. She would be puttering around online, checking emails or reading MSN news. Playing fake slots or solitaire. I remember being frustrated because at least every other week she had a computer issue. She would start "Lisa can you ele me ..." And I'd either laugh easily and say "what now" or if it had been a long day, give her a tight smile and say "sure thing". I fought hard to not make her feel like an old timer dated person who was well beyond computers or technology. She was, a little bit, but she did manage Facebook and kept in touch with everyone on there and via email. She was progressive!
She sat on the outdoor cushioned chair on her porch. I hated her smoking there She had agreed to smoke only outside of the house. Over the 7 years she lived with us she went through various incarnations of trying to stop smoking. The last time, I felt so delicate about the topic because invariably she got defensive and I got angry. But her body told her to quit and she did - magically. Too late. But still . The other weekend I scrubbed her porch. Washed down the siding and the Windows . Notwa wanting that enormously distasteful smoke odor to appear. Kinda half hoping it would.
I also remember her sitting on the porch waiting for Maddie to come home from school. they bonded so tightly and I also recall our many talks had sitting outside in the gorgeous weather. And mom's red long down coat which made her look like a Michelin man but that I got for her to keep her warm. Even though she was smoking, I still wanted to keep her warm. She read voraciously - simple, easy English my steroids. She loved to solve the mystery. Or she also played a ton of her word games. I kept trying to upgrade her to a better tablet, but she was so happy with the danged original kindle.
Mom sitting when I was little at our home, sitting on a chair by herself with either a dish of Breyeers chocolate ice cream in her lap or a handful ofpeanuts she shelled on her own. I never understood the work she put into this.
Mom active Not so much. I told her may times "move it or lose it" and I'm taking that advice myself. When I feel lazy and uninspired, "move it or lose it" comes into my mind and off I go.
I remember Mom sitting around the dining room table playing pinochle with her parents and her sister, aunt Jeanne. Jeanne is the only one still here. I can't imagine the loss she feels.
Day 20
What does a shift in your grief, even a tiny, momentary one, mean to you? What does it say about loss? Or love?
There is a hollowness now to my grief. I can't remember if/when it shifted from full on undeniable pain to the hollowness. I was in "function" mode as mom's caregiver; to move into pain/reality mode was weird. I was going to say hard, but it wasn't hard. Surreal is maybe a better word. Nothing feels grounded. I feel like I'm in a dream sometimes. Tonight I was deadheading flowers outside of mom's living room and I thought about how much she would have loved the Shasta daisies this year. There was a slight pang, but it's just more of a shrug. It is what it is.
My grief strikes me at odd moments. I don't awake thinking about mom. I don't think I can. I spent six months doing that - living every moment wrapped around her. Perhaps my mind has just taken a step back to allow me to just "be" without respite.
Did my hollowness begin when I went back to work? It was about six weeks after mom died. I had a nice chunk of time off to deal with the tasks left behind - sorting clothes, bills, mail, belongings. I think I may have some built in mechanism which keeps me from getting too close from feeling too deeply so that I can function. I have a responsible position and being distracted means making errors which can have repercussions. So perhaps it's a coping mechanism.
I had a hysterectomy a few years ago. It was a fairly traumatic experience with a long recovery. it was almost a year before I could get up without thinking of the trauma my body had gone through. That was more immediate because I had physical pain in addition to the emotional. I don't think of mom now when I wake up.
My standard is having a thought about mom and sighing and saying "oh, mom. Love you" and maybe resting my head for a moment while the sadness sweeps through me. I'm pretty good at the "shake it off" and move on thing I'm not sure if that's good or not. Maybe it just is what it is.
None of this says anything about the love I shared with Mom. It just is what it is.
There is a hollowness now to my grief. I can't remember if/when it shifted from full on undeniable pain to the hollowness. I was in "function" mode as mom's caregiver; to move into pain/reality mode was weird. I was going to say hard, but it wasn't hard. Surreal is maybe a better word. Nothing feels grounded. I feel like I'm in a dream sometimes. Tonight I was deadheading flowers outside of mom's living room and I thought about how much she would have loved the Shasta daisies this year. There was a slight pang, but it's just more of a shrug. It is what it is.
My grief strikes me at odd moments. I don't awake thinking about mom. I don't think I can. I spent six months doing that - living every moment wrapped around her. Perhaps my mind has just taken a step back to allow me to just "be" without respite.
Did my hollowness begin when I went back to work? It was about six weeks after mom died. I had a nice chunk of time off to deal with the tasks left behind - sorting clothes, bills, mail, belongings. I think I may have some built in mechanism which keeps me from getting too close from feeling too deeply so that I can function. I have a responsible position and being distracted means making errors which can have repercussions. So perhaps it's a coping mechanism.
I had a hysterectomy a few years ago. It was a fairly traumatic experience with a long recovery. it was almost a year before I could get up without thinking of the trauma my body had gone through. That was more immediate because I had physical pain in addition to the emotional. I don't think of mom now when I wake up.
My standard is having a thought about mom and sighing and saying "oh, mom. Love you" and maybe resting my head for a moment while the sadness sweeps through me. I'm pretty good at the "shake it off" and move on thing I'm not sure if that's good or not. Maybe it just is what it is.
None of this says anything about the love I shared with Mom. It just is what it is.
Saturday, June 25, 2016
Day 18. I wish you
Peace
Love
Joy
Knowledge
Understanding
Solace
I wish for you to look upon the world
For all the gifts it brings
For the ability to see the beauty of our surroundings
Just as sharply and clearly
As we are experiencing the darker side
So intimate and personal
I wish you a walk to the ocean
Sand dusting your toes
Soaking in the vision of the vast blue grey water
Waves rolling in ... Never ending
I wish you a walk in the first, trees reaching to the heavens
Blue sky above and soft solid dirt beneath your feet
The hush of nature's cathedral bringing reverence forth
I wish you a wander through the Louvre or the Met
To marvel at the beauty mere humans can create
Speaking to our emotions through their paint
Their clay and their metals
I wish you to see the majesty of our home
To be filled with wonder and to feel small
And to know that while we have our pain
It is the nature of love
It is the dark side, the pain
Balanced always by beauty
Day 17. Grief is everywhere.
There is no respite. There are reminders in the mailbox, in the car sitting in the drive, in her bedroom which I sorted through today, in the laundry room where today I finally folded the nightgowns she wore last. They are in the back of my car because I have to drop off her clothes at the thrift store. They are in my garden which we planned together. They are fucking everywhere.
There is comfort in that. I get to have that closeness yet at the same time I get to feel that pain. Yin/yang. Heaviness. I haven't written since Tuesday. I just wasn't moved to. I was overwhelmed with work stress and just couldn't handle facing sadness. I didn't want to so I shelved it.
Grief is in one of my closer girlfriend's life because her mom was diagnosed shortly after my mom was with stage 4 bladder cancer. Immunotherapy is helping her, thank goodness. I'm jealous of that. This week my friend was upset because her mom is losing her hair. It took all I had to not make a snarky remark about her still being alive. That's an ugly thought. I hugged my friend shortly after, knowing she was upset to see her mom sick and not wanting to be ugly. The hug helped because I know she feels awkward about it as well. I do rejoice in her mom's health.
My other friend's father is having major health challenges. He's had operations to stop internal bleeding, etc., etc. Not good. He's in his 80's as is her mom. I have to watch my boundaries somewhat, but this friend was so wonderful to me, has been so supportive. I find texting is much easier than talking because at least I can make sure with texting that my words are supportive "enough".
There was a time when I was feeling a bit separate from what was going down with mom during her illness. Or maybe a bit before that, when she was ailing but we weren't sure what it was. Probably for 6-8 months she had weird stomach stuff and tiredness and other symptoms that now we know pointed to the cancer growing. I was growing weary of the responsibility. I haven't admitted that to anyone. But it's true. I remember thinking that life would be different when she passed, that I would have more time. This feeling flitted through, not staying for a long while and even when she was sick only at the very last few days did I hope that she didn't have long (because she was unconscious and dragging it out was horrendous). I have some guilt over those old thoughts. I know, I know. They are normal. But they're ugly to me and right now it bothers me.
I didn't know how much I would miss her. Someone close to me told me I'd be most hurt by the silence that would come in her absence. He was right. It's not like I'm in emotional turmoil, it's simply always there. Always.
There is comfort in that. I get to have that closeness yet at the same time I get to feel that pain. Yin/yang. Heaviness. I haven't written since Tuesday. I just wasn't moved to. I was overwhelmed with work stress and just couldn't handle facing sadness. I didn't want to so I shelved it.
Grief is in one of my closer girlfriend's life because her mom was diagnosed shortly after my mom was with stage 4 bladder cancer. Immunotherapy is helping her, thank goodness. I'm jealous of that. This week my friend was upset because her mom is losing her hair. It took all I had to not make a snarky remark about her still being alive. That's an ugly thought. I hugged my friend shortly after, knowing she was upset to see her mom sick and not wanting to be ugly. The hug helped because I know she feels awkward about it as well. I do rejoice in her mom's health.
My other friend's father is having major health challenges. He's had operations to stop internal bleeding, etc., etc. Not good. He's in his 80's as is her mom. I have to watch my boundaries somewhat, but this friend was so wonderful to me, has been so supportive. I find texting is much easier than talking because at least I can make sure with texting that my words are supportive "enough".
There was a time when I was feeling a bit separate from what was going down with mom during her illness. Or maybe a bit before that, when she was ailing but we weren't sure what it was. Probably for 6-8 months she had weird stomach stuff and tiredness and other symptoms that now we know pointed to the cancer growing. I was growing weary of the responsibility. I haven't admitted that to anyone. But it's true. I remember thinking that life would be different when she passed, that I would have more time. This feeling flitted through, not staying for a long while and even when she was sick only at the very last few days did I hope that she didn't have long (because she was unconscious and dragging it out was horrendous). I have some guilt over those old thoughts. I know, I know. They are normal. But they're ugly to me and right now it bothers me.
I didn't know how much I would miss her. Someone close to me told me I'd be most hurt by the silence that would come in her absence. He was right. It's not like I'm in emotional turmoil, it's simply always there. Always.
Tuesday, June 21, 2016
Day 11
I suffer from these brief weekends, the tearing up of the roots of love, and from my own inability to behave better under the stress. The poem is about silence, that it is really only there that lovers can know what they know, and there what they know is deep, nourishing, nourishing to the palms of the hands and the soles of the feet.
Brief weekends - yes. workdays can be hard. It's good because I get immersed in projects and use my brain and am drawn back into the world, feeling vital and connected with people. And yet sometimes I wonder if I'm avoiding grieving. Or maybe I've done a lot of the heavy grieving when mom was on hospice. I don't feel like I have done enough work to accept mom's passing. I don't feel like I've cried enough. I know I'm judging myself. And that I shouldn't, but it's where my mind goes. Insomnia has been a constant companion. I'm beginning to wear down. And then, before I know it, Friday is here. I look forward to two lazy days. I have so much to do, a chore list the length of my arm, but I find myself doing things to nurture myself rather than to complete a chore list. Reading. Swimming. Walking. Puttering. Sleeping in a bit. My energy is low. My desire to socialize pretty minimal. L
And this leads to why I look forward to the weekends, brief though they feel. It's so obvious it feels silly to state it, but Mom is my roots. Everything I have is because she provided me with a life and unconditional love and guidance. I do feel a little rootless. I do feel the strain of feeling like the matriarch, although my aunt technically has that title. I made Mom big promises - I would ensure that everyone will be ok. She will be remembered and loved and everyone will be ok. That's a load to bear, but I'm good with it.
And that leads to my own inability to behave better. Oh my word I've been off the hook the last few weeks with simple flash anger at situations and I know, I just know, I'm not thinking clearly and yet, there it is. That flash anger. I'm a Libra - very balanced and centered. Not so much since April 16th. Probably not so much since last October, when Mom began feeling ill. My sister has born a lot of my anger. I've born hers as well. We're not angry with one another. We're feeling bereft and lonely (we live in different states) and seeking peace. We each have our own crosses to bear. Mine lie with the actuality of being mom's caretaker. I'd be lying if I said I thought I handled everything just fine and I have no issues. I have issues, though they are lingering well below the surface. Perhaps those memories are what keep me up at night, without my even realizing it. Subconsciously.
I find I've learned a lot about life recently. I can look back and say "ah-ha" at a few things, some tenents of life that have occurred to me and I realize that I've grown. I now understand some things differently because of my experiences.
Happily, joyfully, I've had a good week. I've been able to string four days of feeling mostly positive and happy together. Today I found myself singing in the car and dancing around to Justin Timberlake's new song. It made me smile. Life can be "normal" again.
Brief weekends - yes. workdays can be hard. It's good because I get immersed in projects and use my brain and am drawn back into the world, feeling vital and connected with people. And yet sometimes I wonder if I'm avoiding grieving. Or maybe I've done a lot of the heavy grieving when mom was on hospice. I don't feel like I have done enough work to accept mom's passing. I don't feel like I've cried enough. I know I'm judging myself. And that I shouldn't, but it's where my mind goes. Insomnia has been a constant companion. I'm beginning to wear down. And then, before I know it, Friday is here. I look forward to two lazy days. I have so much to do, a chore list the length of my arm, but I find myself doing things to nurture myself rather than to complete a chore list. Reading. Swimming. Walking. Puttering. Sleeping in a bit. My energy is low. My desire to socialize pretty minimal. L
And this leads to why I look forward to the weekends, brief though they feel. It's so obvious it feels silly to state it, but Mom is my roots. Everything I have is because she provided me with a life and unconditional love and guidance. I do feel a little rootless. I do feel the strain of feeling like the matriarch, although my aunt technically has that title. I made Mom big promises - I would ensure that everyone will be ok. She will be remembered and loved and everyone will be ok. That's a load to bear, but I'm good with it.
And that leads to my own inability to behave better. Oh my word I've been off the hook the last few weeks with simple flash anger at situations and I know, I just know, I'm not thinking clearly and yet, there it is. That flash anger. I'm a Libra - very balanced and centered. Not so much since April 16th. Probably not so much since last October, when Mom began feeling ill. My sister has born a lot of my anger. I've born hers as well. We're not angry with one another. We're feeling bereft and lonely (we live in different states) and seeking peace. We each have our own crosses to bear. Mine lie with the actuality of being mom's caretaker. I'd be lying if I said I thought I handled everything just fine and I have no issues. I have issues, though they are lingering well below the surface. Perhaps those memories are what keep me up at night, without my even realizing it. Subconsciously.
I find I've learned a lot about life recently. I can look back and say "ah-ha" at a few things, some tenents of life that have occurred to me and I realize that I've grown. I now understand some things differently because of my experiences.
Happily, joyfully, I've had a good week. I've been able to string four days of feeling mostly positive and happy together. Today I found myself singing in the car and dancing around to Justin Timberlake's new song. It made me smile. Life can be "normal" again.
Day 16
My heart is tired. Ragged with exhaustion. Trying to put on the happy face. Inside just wanting to curl up in bed. Wanting no one to worry about me. Not wanting to think or feel anymore. Wanting to feel normal unworried and unfettered but that won't happen again. Not for awhile I guess. I distract myself from the constant feeling. I remind myself to keep my boundaries. I try to let myself retreat when needed but life doesn't work that way
My heart hurts that people can't see how crumpled it is. I want gentleness and kindness and it's not always there. Peace and quiet not confrontation yet my work is all mini skirmishes. Today it's really whacking me down. I find the energy to smile at strangers because it helps me. But I want that down comforter pulled over my head.
I forget to be gentle with myself. I push and do and don't take the quiet that I need and then I get a day like today where everything seems fucked up.
My keys get misplaced. My glasses go missing. I actually was sleep eating Sunday night because I took an ambien to try to sleep. Nothing feels in control. And of course it's not.
Those ragged fluttery edges of my heart are what I see. Yet still in the center it beats strongly. Consistently. It's like there is a part of me waiting for the grieving part to feel better before wrapping my whole heart up again and healing the edges. Growth through pain. A life unexamined is not worth living. Hence, I pick and pluck at the frayed threads, sometimes settling one back into the whole. Sometimes pulling until something new unravels and the heart is heavy again. Like today. The air is heavy and my heart is heavy. A difficult combination.
My heart hurts that people can't see how crumpled it is. I want gentleness and kindness and it's not always there. Peace and quiet not confrontation yet my work is all mini skirmishes. Today it's really whacking me down. I find the energy to smile at strangers because it helps me. But I want that down comforter pulled over my head.
I forget to be gentle with myself. I push and do and don't take the quiet that I need and then I get a day like today where everything seems fucked up.
My keys get misplaced. My glasses go missing. I actually was sleep eating Sunday night because I took an ambien to try to sleep. Nothing feels in control. And of course it's not.
Those ragged fluttery edges of my heart are what I see. Yet still in the center it beats strongly. Consistently. It's like there is a part of me waiting for the grieving part to feel better before wrapping my whole heart up again and healing the edges. Growth through pain. A life unexamined is not worth living. Hence, I pick and pluck at the frayed threads, sometimes settling one back into the whole. Sometimes pulling until something new unravels and the heart is heavy again. Like today. The air is heavy and my heart is heavy. A difficult combination.
Monday, June 20, 2016
Day 14
Changed landscape
You are here and yet not. I began sorting your belongings and then got frozen. I had energy for it and now I don't. I putter a bit but am overwhelmed with the tasks. It's not really emotional distress. I do feel a bit like I'm erasing you. My pain wants me to erase but my love keeps me from doing it.
I see your disease everywhere. Where the hospital bed was. The bottle of cough syrup you would chug. The tootsie rolls and porch chairs and tea mugs. The long red down coat I got you for Christmas so you wouldn't freeze when sitting outside. The red soft bathrobe still hanging in your closet. The clothes in my car for thrift shop that I need to inventory for taxes but there they sit.
Grief is still kicking my ass in ways I don't think I see.
You are here and yet not. I began sorting your belongings and then got frozen. I had energy for it and now I don't. I putter a bit but am overwhelmed with the tasks. It's not really emotional distress. I do feel a bit like I'm erasing you. My pain wants me to erase but my love keeps me from doing it.
I see your disease everywhere. Where the hospital bed was. The bottle of cough syrup you would chug. The tootsie rolls and porch chairs and tea mugs. The long red down coat I got you for Christmas so you wouldn't freeze when sitting outside. The red soft bathrobe still hanging in your closet. The clothes in my car for thrift shop that I need to inventory for taxes but there they sit.
Grief is still kicking my ass in ways I don't think I see.
Friday, June 17, 2016
Day 12
softening into the pain
For me, the opposite of pain is peace. Peace is something that feels like home to me, even moreso after going through this grief. The grief, you - you feel like chaos and stress and anxiety and sleepless nights and eating weird things and diarrhea and snappiness and busy-ness and chores and obligations and the smell of doctor offices and internet searches and that sick room smell that I still can pick up on occasion and pushing back the tears and denial and love. yes, you feel like love even through all of those shitty things because it is a natural progression, losing one's parents.
I don't try to push you away. I actually absorb you. I think some of you rests in my subconscious and always will to some extent. At least that's what I think today. That may change next week. You are always evolving, and that is exhausting. Yes, another word for you is exhausting.
So for me the opposite is peace. It's what I strive for. I want quiet. I want the love of my family and friends. I want no conflict. Although at times you make me lash out which creates conflict. so there's that. But that seems to be getting better. I seem to be getting a handle on it. It's no surprise that the worst of you came out during the week I returned to work. Returning to work made everything we had gone through final. But I'm not ready to be final. I'm not done with you.
I do seek peace. I seek perspective. I seek laughter and light and love and harmony. I'm thrilled to have had the four days now strung up in a row in which I've been able to be present, be productive and laugh.
You do keep me from getting invested in worrying about someone though. I have a friend who I'm concerned about right now. You let me know in no uncertain terms that there is no way that you will permit me to concentrate on someone else at the moment. Yes, my mouth says I worry, but my heart isn't into it. I now know what true emotional distress is and I don't feel that. That's reserved for you, when you choose to make yourself known. I'm good putting my concern for others on the backburner and being present with you and with peace.
I had so much time to say goodbye to mom. So many moments. They pop in and out of my mind. I paused just now to look at a picture of her. A certain feeling of peace comes first before you settle into my bones. Sometimes I think I'm not allowing you to fully come in; sometimes I think you're just such a part of me that you've come to stay and I'm just getting used to your company.
I want peace. I want softness and gentle and warmth. I also welcome the pain because it makes me feel connected to Mom. Perhaps I'm learning they can co-exist in a way that makes me able to be happy as well. I find I cannot get invested in what is going on in the world. It's chaotic and scary and nauseating. I want my bubble and so I'm sticking to it for now, letting in only what feels safe.
welcoming the pain because it is a part of the human experience and a part of me is truly grateful that i'm alive and able to evolve and feel these emotions and that I was able to love someone so deeply that I get to feel this pain for her.
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
Day 10
: evening falling - a soft lamenting
Pulling into the driveway after work - expecting
Expecting Mom to be sitting on her porch
In her favorite chair
Smoking and reading or playing on her kindle
I would be so annoyed by the smoking
I didn't want to smell it, so didn't approach her
instead, going inside the house after waving hello
When she wasn't smoking though -
I would sit. Taking a rest from the day's business
Laughing...sharing...caring
There was one gorgeous day in March
We sat outside together. Just a glorious warm day
tinged with my knowledge of what was coming but
avoiding talking about it, refusing to dwell in a future reality
choosing to live in the moment
A soft lamenting
Maddie came home from school since fourth grade
to Grandma waiting for her on the porch
Waiting to say hello. Give a smile. Feed a treat.
I lament what Maddie lost. I lament what my kids lost.
It's not a sharp pain at the moment. It's a soft lamenting.
Pulling into the driveway after work - expecting
Expecting Mom to be sitting on her porch
In her favorite chair
Smoking and reading or playing on her kindle
I would be so annoyed by the smoking
I didn't want to smell it, so didn't approach her
instead, going inside the house after waving hello
When she wasn't smoking though -
I would sit. Taking a rest from the day's business
Laughing...sharing...caring
There was one gorgeous day in March
We sat outside together. Just a glorious warm day
tinged with my knowledge of what was coming but
avoiding talking about it, refusing to dwell in a future reality
choosing to live in the moment
A soft lamenting
Maddie came home from school since fourth grade
to Grandma waiting for her on the porch
Waiting to say hello. Give a smile. Feed a treat.
I lament what Maddie lost. I lament what my kids lost.
It's not a sharp pain at the moment. It's a soft lamenting.
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
Day 9
Purple.
Purple is a royal, regal color.
It is the color of mom's cheeks because of her rosacea
It is the color I saw missing when Mom died. She didn't look like herself without the purple
It is the color of the flowers I bought for her on a whim. Pansies, spring's first. I hung the basket on mom's hook outside and she noticed immediately. "I'm so glad I got to see spring flowers." We both knew she would not feel summer's heat.
It is the color of a checkered shirt mom loved because it was comfy. The shirt sits on top of the dryer. I'm unable to touch it as of yet.
Add a drop or two of black to purple and you get gray.
Mom wouldn't want me stuck in gray. It's not my nature, and it would make her unhappy to think I was suffering. That was her worst fear - how everyone would be without her. I assured her that I had it, that I would take care of everything. That everyone would be ok. I was really good at selling that point. Little did I know how hard it would be. But I managed it. I think everyone's doing "ok" with some bumpiness in the road.
That's the blackness I need to subtract from life's purple. I am on the right path. I have had two decent days in a row. Days where I can face life and not grimace. Maybe it's not subtracting the black, but rather adding some lavender to lighten the purple up again. That suits me better. I can't go back. I can't take the black out. But I can move forward and little by little add the palest lavender and find joy. Mom is purple, not gray. My gray is temporary. It may be an occasional visitor but it will not be my constant companion. Anytime a little drop of black comes along to gray me up again, I am now feeling more confident that a lil lavender will come along and I'll be purple again.
Purple is a royal, regal color.
It is the color of mom's cheeks because of her rosacea
It is the color I saw missing when Mom died. She didn't look like herself without the purple
It is the color of the flowers I bought for her on a whim. Pansies, spring's first. I hung the basket on mom's hook outside and she noticed immediately. "I'm so glad I got to see spring flowers." We both knew she would not feel summer's heat.
It is the color of a checkered shirt mom loved because it was comfy. The shirt sits on top of the dryer. I'm unable to touch it as of yet.
Add a drop or two of black to purple and you get gray.
Mom wouldn't want me stuck in gray. It's not my nature, and it would make her unhappy to think I was suffering. That was her worst fear - how everyone would be without her. I assured her that I had it, that I would take care of everything. That everyone would be ok. I was really good at selling that point. Little did I know how hard it would be. But I managed it. I think everyone's doing "ok" with some bumpiness in the road.
That's the blackness I need to subtract from life's purple. I am on the right path. I have had two decent days in a row. Days where I can face life and not grimace. Maybe it's not subtracting the black, but rather adding some lavender to lighten the purple up again. That suits me better. I can't go back. I can't take the black out. But I can move forward and little by little add the palest lavender and find joy. Mom is purple, not gray. My gray is temporary. It may be an occasional visitor but it will not be my constant companion. Anytime a little drop of black comes along to gray me up again, I am now feeling more confident that a lil lavender will come along and I'll be purple again.
Day 8
"Tell us about a guiding star inside your grief: are there people
- whether real, mythological, or fictional - who live their own grief
in a way that gives you encouragement, inspiration, or direction?"
I am lucky to have several people who have guided me over the last six months or so.
Regina - My oldest friend. We've been besties since high school. Reg lost her mom years ago to pancreatic cancer. She has listened when I fell apart. Sympathized when I raged and acknowledged and validated my feelings as we went from diagnosis to treatment to hospice to death. She's understood my tears. She's understood that life continues. She listens and never judges. She shares herself with me, in a way I would not have understood before I joined the "club" of friends whose moms have passed.
Maureen - Another dear friend. Maureen is empathetic. She has a calm presence which soothes me. She also validates my feelings. She is struggling now with her mother having stage 4 bladder cancer. She has made me feel less crazy when my emotions are tearing through me. She doesn't criticize or tell me I'm wrong for feeling the way I do. I'm very grateful for her.
Aunt Jeanne - Mom's sister. We have always been close. We are now closer. She has turned into the person I go to when I need some life wisdom. She has been supportive throughout and has given me the confidence to do what is needed.
I don't know what I would have done without these people in my life. I read somewhere how I needed to have a list of what people in my life could do for me. Who were the listeners. Who were the action people. Who should I avoid. These people above are all my listeners. I trust their instincts and their judgments.
I am lucky to have several people who have guided me over the last six months or so.
Regina - My oldest friend. We've been besties since high school. Reg lost her mom years ago to pancreatic cancer. She has listened when I fell apart. Sympathized when I raged and acknowledged and validated my feelings as we went from diagnosis to treatment to hospice to death. She's understood my tears. She's understood that life continues. She listens and never judges. She shares herself with me, in a way I would not have understood before I joined the "club" of friends whose moms have passed.
Maureen - Another dear friend. Maureen is empathetic. She has a calm presence which soothes me. She also validates my feelings. She is struggling now with her mother having stage 4 bladder cancer. She has made me feel less crazy when my emotions are tearing through me. She doesn't criticize or tell me I'm wrong for feeling the way I do. I'm very grateful for her.
Aunt Jeanne - Mom's sister. We have always been close. We are now closer. She has turned into the person I go to when I need some life wisdom. She has been supportive throughout and has given me the confidence to do what is needed.
I don't know what I would have done without these people in my life. I read somewhere how I needed to have a list of what people in my life could do for me. Who were the listeners. Who were the action people. Who should I avoid. These people above are all my listeners. I trust their instincts and their judgments.
Sunday, June 12, 2016
Day 6 prompt
"Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing."
I am learning how very true this statement is. I've had a fairly charmed life. My father was an asshole and I had o deal with some feelings about that but overall when compared to most people I have been very fortunate. I am a writer at heart however one of the things I struggle with is creativity. They say write what you know. Having never know something of this magnitude, having lost someone so pivotal in my life, I am beginning to see a side of the human experience I have not felt. I am empathetic but not a participant.
So now I participate. And again I feel compelled to say that moms death was a natural occurrence, she lived a good life and died at 73. There is still a piece of me that feels overly dramatic grieving for her. I know how odd that sounds.
So how to be kind to myself. I'm actually pretty talented in that area. My biggest change noticeable to me has been my utter need for quiet and peace. I think the stress of caregiving stripped me of any desire for noise, lights, constant action. I am more apt to be happy at home on a Saturday night. I am less apt to have a drink. While I would find people's habits like humming at work annoying, now it's the presence of a lot of people in my office which grates.
Kindness to myself is going to bed early with a book. Having a quiet dinner with a good friend. Sometimes it's watching the NBA finals with my family because they are funny and being in their company feels really soothing even if they are noisy. Being soft and gentle to others is being kind to myself because the energy around me stays where I want it to be.
Being kind to myself is controlling my environment (within reason) so that I can be okay. Even though I know what I want and often want things done my way because it's the right way, I also used to absorb other people's needs and emotions and stress over them, wanting to help and fix. Being kind to myself is being a better gatekeeper and only allowing what is important in.
There is a piece of me that stands back watching how this has changes me and clinically observing an actual shift in my person. I'm my own fly on the wall.
Friday, June 10, 2016
Day 5 Prompt
Personification of my grief
My grief is a ghost. He, yes he, because my grief for some reason feels masculine, he flits in and out of view. It is a haunting, somehow ever present - like when you are in a hallway and swear that you saw something out of the corner of your eye or when I was a little girl and ran down the stairs from the second floor to the first because the long hallway behind me as I descended scared me so.
I'm not comfortable with him. My mind sets itself to practical matters, but he whispers that he's still here, waiting until I'm ready. Some days he feels like Casper; other times the heaviness which he drapes over me is crushing.
He reminds me of moments to try and drag me into his realm. Remembering giving mom morphine the first time. Helping with her catheter. Taking care of it, helping her with her constipation from the meds, her utter weakness. I believe the haunting began then - when mom had a fall and went downhill so fast it was almost breathtaking. It would have been breathtaking if I had taken a step back to see what was going on instead of being in constant caregiver mode.
I felt grief's full presence when the funeral director came to take mom away. I didn't want to leave her side. She died around 6:30 am. I think. It may have been 8:30. I'll have to ask my husband. It's a bit of a blur. My warning was when her death rattle suddenly, inexplicably, stopped. I had laid down in mom's room, about 15 feet from her hospital bed at 2:00, hoping to get a few hours rest. Something woke me at 4:30. Perhaps it was my new companion, grief, coming to usher me into my new reality.
I was restless and checked on mom, straightening her covers. She was fully unconscious. I can't remember when she had last closed her eyes and didn't open them. That makes me cry now. I can't remember. I have notes I kept on my phone. I can't bear to read through them yet. When I can, I will then know the timeline. We have two adult children and one teenager in the house with my husband and me, yet I felt what I was doing was so solitary. I was fixated on mom, living in her en suite, forgetting there was a whole world "out there" beyond our suffering.
Mom's skin was terribly dry. I was appalled at how it would just flake off her body. Clouds of it, it seemed, when she moved, for about a month or so prior to her death it was quite bad. So while I was restless I decided to lotion her feet. And since I was there, I clipped her toenails because I'd never felt up to offering to do it when she was cognizant. I lotion end her hands and arms and scalp, talking with her quietly. My response but her harsh breath in the quiet of the room, the vile swishing of the oxygen tank filling every corner of our space. Perhaps grief came to help me through what he knew was going to be the hardest thing ever.
Her dying ... That wasn't so awful. It barely felt final. The finality came when something made me say to the funeral director "no, I'll stay" and he respectfully said "of course" and he and his assistant began moving mom to their gurney. What did I think was going not happen? The reality of the situation finally smacked me awake. I watched in true horror as they slowly moved the cover up her body. I felt a vast wound opening in my chest. Grief crying out. I'm grateful for that grief because it enabled me to croak out the words "wait" just as he was going to lay the covers over mom's face.
He respectfully lowered the blanket again so that I could kiss mom goodbye. I don't know where that courage came from, but I'm so grateful it came.
In that moment I believe the shocked state I'd been operating under since diagnosis in December faded and He came to stay. My grief. My own companion. Perhaps he is a kind grief who is doling out the emotions slowly, only giving me what I can manage. Sometimes he knows I need the emotional release of a torrent of emotions, ones that knock me off my feet. He guides me to self care and reminds me to be gentle with myself. And he gives me the ability to smile even with a bittersweet edge, to remember the wonderful life mom and I had together. Yes, He came to stay and he is as complicated a ghost as I've ever known.
My grief is a ghost. He, yes he, because my grief for some reason feels masculine, he flits in and out of view. It is a haunting, somehow ever present - like when you are in a hallway and swear that you saw something out of the corner of your eye or when I was a little girl and ran down the stairs from the second floor to the first because the long hallway behind me as I descended scared me so.
I'm not comfortable with him. My mind sets itself to practical matters, but he whispers that he's still here, waiting until I'm ready. Some days he feels like Casper; other times the heaviness which he drapes over me is crushing.
He reminds me of moments to try and drag me into his realm. Remembering giving mom morphine the first time. Helping with her catheter. Taking care of it, helping her with her constipation from the meds, her utter weakness. I believe the haunting began then - when mom had a fall and went downhill so fast it was almost breathtaking. It would have been breathtaking if I had taken a step back to see what was going on instead of being in constant caregiver mode.
I felt grief's full presence when the funeral director came to take mom away. I didn't want to leave her side. She died around 6:30 am. I think. It may have been 8:30. I'll have to ask my husband. It's a bit of a blur. My warning was when her death rattle suddenly, inexplicably, stopped. I had laid down in mom's room, about 15 feet from her hospital bed at 2:00, hoping to get a few hours rest. Something woke me at 4:30. Perhaps it was my new companion, grief, coming to usher me into my new reality.
I was restless and checked on mom, straightening her covers. She was fully unconscious. I can't remember when she had last closed her eyes and didn't open them. That makes me cry now. I can't remember. I have notes I kept on my phone. I can't bear to read through them yet. When I can, I will then know the timeline. We have two adult children and one teenager in the house with my husband and me, yet I felt what I was doing was so solitary. I was fixated on mom, living in her en suite, forgetting there was a whole world "out there" beyond our suffering.
Mom's skin was terribly dry. I was appalled at how it would just flake off her body. Clouds of it, it seemed, when she moved, for about a month or so prior to her death it was quite bad. So while I was restless I decided to lotion her feet. And since I was there, I clipped her toenails because I'd never felt up to offering to do it when she was cognizant. I lotion end her hands and arms and scalp, talking with her quietly. My response but her harsh breath in the quiet of the room, the vile swishing of the oxygen tank filling every corner of our space. Perhaps grief came to help me through what he knew was going to be the hardest thing ever.
Her dying ... That wasn't so awful. It barely felt final. The finality came when something made me say to the funeral director "no, I'll stay" and he respectfully said "of course" and he and his assistant began moving mom to their gurney. What did I think was going not happen? The reality of the situation finally smacked me awake. I watched in true horror as they slowly moved the cover up her body. I felt a vast wound opening in my chest. Grief crying out. I'm grateful for that grief because it enabled me to croak out the words "wait" just as he was going to lay the covers over mom's face.
He respectfully lowered the blanket again so that I could kiss mom goodbye. I don't know where that courage came from, but I'm so grateful it came.
In that moment I believe the shocked state I'd been operating under since diagnosis in December faded and He came to stay. My grief. My own companion. Perhaps he is a kind grief who is doling out the emotions slowly, only giving me what I can manage. Sometimes he knows I need the emotional release of a torrent of emotions, ones that knock me off my feet. He guides me to self care and reminds me to be gentle with myself. And he gives me the ability to smile even with a bittersweet edge, to remember the wonderful life mom and I had together. Yes, He came to stay and he is as complicated a ghost as I've ever known.
Day 3 Prompt
Today's prompt is about living in a changed world, finding ways to live in the changed world:
"I was living in a rainforest. I knew the trees and the frogs, the lush green life. With no warning, I got shoved into the desert. I know this is the desert. So take back your plastic palm trees and your cups of water; quit telling me it's the same. I know better. I know where I live."
- Megan Devine, from my collected journals.
The desert has many teachings
In the desert, turn toward emptiness,
fleeing the self.
Stand alone, Ask no one's help,
And your being will quiet, Free from the bondage of things.
Those who cling to the world, endeavor to free them;
those who are free, praise.
Care for the sick, But live alone,
Happy to drink from the waters of sorrow, To kindle Love's fire
With the twigs of a simple life.
Thus you will live in the desert.
- Mechtild of Magdeburg, excerpted in Jane Hirshfield's Women In Praise of theSacred.
How do you live in a landscape so vastly changed? Write from any line in the above pieces, or start today's writing with one of the following:
I was living in the forest....
I know where I live...
Here's how I live in the desert...
"I was living in a rainforest. I knew the trees and the frogs, the lush green life. With no warning, I got shoved into the desert. I know this is the desert. So take back your plastic palm trees and your cups of water; quit telling me it's the same. I know better. I know where I live."
- Megan Devine, from my collected journals.
The desert has many teachings
In the desert, turn toward emptiness,
fleeing the self.
Stand alone, Ask no one's help,
And your being will quiet, Free from the bondage of things.
Those who cling to the world, endeavor to free them;
those who are free, praise.
Care for the sick, But live alone,
Happy to drink from the waters of sorrow, To kindle Love's fire
With the twigs of a simple life.
Thus you will live in the desert.
- Mechtild of Magdeburg, excerpted in Jane Hirshfield's Women In Praise of theSacred.
How do you live in a landscape so vastly changed? Write from any line in the above pieces, or start today's writing with one of the following:
I was living in the forest....
I know where I live...
Here's how I live in the desert...
I was living in the forest where life was lush and the canopy of leaves offered shade and protection. Now there is no shade, no protection in my desert. Tears come forth unbidden, with seemingly no defenses available to hold them until a more convenient time. I'm learning my defenses, but they are nowhere near as ingrained as I need them to be. My thoughts change daily from thinking I'm ok and sad, but definitely ok to a simple exhaustion that I crave sinking into. I can't control the swings. They just are. I use routine to keep me on track. I think that if I didn't stay in routine I'd become frozen and have a harder time finding my way back to the forest. And so I plod on, looking round as I go, peeking for signs of a path. I think I have found the beginnings of a path back. It is rough and indistinct, but a path nonetheless. Today the trail widened a bit. I cried, but was held while I cried, and that love brought me closer to myself. It reminded me that while I lost the unconditional love Mom poured into me, I still have precious love in my life. I felt protected and cared for which makes falling asleep tonight not a chore but a pleasure because I have something good to hold onto. The beginnings of my rebuilt canopy.
Thursday, June 9, 2016
Day 4 Prompt
<<People always say that it hurts at night and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3am is the romantic equivalent of being heartbroken.
But sometimes it’s 9am on a Tuesday morning and you’re standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the toast to pop up And the smell of dusty sunlight and earl gray tea makes you miss him so much you don’t know what to do with your hands.
― On Missing Them, Rosie Scanlan
Write from any line in the above piece, or let your mind take you into a scent-memory, as Rosie Scanlan has done here.
You can also start today's writing with one of the following:
it’s 9am on a tuesday morning, and I'm standing...
I don't know what to do with my hands...>>
It's 9 am on a Wednesday morning. My first morning back to work since Mom's funeral. When I pull open the door to the vestibule the familiar scent of new carpeting hits me and I sigh. Or take a deep breath. I can never tell which is which anymore. They all feel like sighs. It's one floor to my office. My right hand slides up the wooden railing and my stomach turns as I wonder whether I remember the code for the door. I did, and that surprised me because in the past I had it written in notes on my phone in case I forgot it. I was amazed that such a trivial detail could remain in my mind while everything else seemed wiped out by what happened the past six months.
It's like a re-entry. I had been on edge the day prior, knowing I was to return and just not sure I wanted or could face the crazy stressful atmosphere. I'm a paralegal with a small law firm which does family law. Every day we are inundated with people's issues/problems/dramas and we are paid to fix things and right people's worlds - many times because of their own stupidity or lack of compassion or common sense. But we can never say that. I wasn't sure how that energy was going to blend with my new, needing mellowness and peace energy.
It's been a week and a half now that I've been back. It's exhausting, but I've managed to avoid getting crazy thus far. It won't last, it's just the nature of the beast, but it's also one reason I love my job -- it's different day by day.
Some days I have been able to enjoy my work again, enjoy my coworkers and my boss. We have a great environment. Other days like today I just wanted to say fuck it all and walk out. My husband and I have plenty of college bills to pay with another daughter in high school with bills to follow. Like most families, the double income is important. So I work. I plod sometimes. But I am proud of myself that I get up and move each day even though I don't want to. I work five minutes from home, have to be in at 9. On my more difficult mornings I just want to lie in bed and stretch it to getting up at 8:20 (having showered the night before) and throw myself together and make it to work on time. When I texted my boss "are you ready for me tomorrow?" First he responded "who is this" then said "yup. See you tomorrow". I said "ok. See you promptly at 9:03!" So I'm a last minute kinda gal.
Now the rushing seems stressful to me. I don't take it in stride and it stresses me out. Note to self: I need to do something about that. I struggle to find meaning in these prompts but perhaps this is the meaning for me - talk about things until an "ah-ha" moment occurs. Better bedtime routine would lead to better mornings and less stress for me. Derp.
But sometimes it’s 9am on a Tuesday morning and you’re standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the toast to pop up And the smell of dusty sunlight and earl gray tea makes you miss him so much you don’t know what to do with your hands.
― On Missing Them, Rosie Scanlan
Write from any line in the above piece, or let your mind take you into a scent-memory, as Rosie Scanlan has done here.
You can also start today's writing with one of the following:
it’s 9am on a tuesday morning, and I'm standing...
I don't know what to do with my hands...>>
It's 9 am on a Wednesday morning. My first morning back to work since Mom's funeral. When I pull open the door to the vestibule the familiar scent of new carpeting hits me and I sigh. Or take a deep breath. I can never tell which is which anymore. They all feel like sighs. It's one floor to my office. My right hand slides up the wooden railing and my stomach turns as I wonder whether I remember the code for the door. I did, and that surprised me because in the past I had it written in notes on my phone in case I forgot it. I was amazed that such a trivial detail could remain in my mind while everything else seemed wiped out by what happened the past six months.
It's like a re-entry. I had been on edge the day prior, knowing I was to return and just not sure I wanted or could face the crazy stressful atmosphere. I'm a paralegal with a small law firm which does family law. Every day we are inundated with people's issues/problems/dramas and we are paid to fix things and right people's worlds - many times because of their own stupidity or lack of compassion or common sense. But we can never say that. I wasn't sure how that energy was going to blend with my new, needing mellowness and peace energy.
It's been a week and a half now that I've been back. It's exhausting, but I've managed to avoid getting crazy thus far. It won't last, it's just the nature of the beast, but it's also one reason I love my job -- it's different day by day.
Some days I have been able to enjoy my work again, enjoy my coworkers and my boss. We have a great environment. Other days like today I just wanted to say fuck it all and walk out. My husband and I have plenty of college bills to pay with another daughter in high school with bills to follow. Like most families, the double income is important. So I work. I plod sometimes. But I am proud of myself that I get up and move each day even though I don't want to. I work five minutes from home, have to be in at 9. On my more difficult mornings I just want to lie in bed and stretch it to getting up at 8:20 (having showered the night before) and throw myself together and make it to work on time. When I texted my boss "are you ready for me tomorrow?" First he responded "who is this" then said "yup. See you tomorrow". I said "ok. See you promptly at 9:03!" So I'm a last minute kinda gal.
Now the rushing seems stressful to me. I don't take it in stride and it stresses me out. Note to self: I need to do something about that. I struggle to find meaning in these prompts but perhaps this is the meaning for me - talk about things until an "ah-ha" moment occurs. Better bedtime routine would lead to better mornings and less stress for me. Derp.
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
Day 2 Prompt
We often put on our "public" face when we go out, hiding private pain behind a tight mask of "I'm fine, thanks," and hurried attempts to walk-on-past. There is so much we do not say. So much hidden behind a public numbness, or a polite and clipped response. But inside, there is so much more: howling and punching, pounded by grief. What is hidden below the public surface.
If you could tell people something, tell them what is true, what is true about grief and love and loss, something they do not know, or can't know, what would it be? If you could address them, what would be said?
You might start with: "what you don't know... " or: "what does not show..."
What does not show is how hard it is to get through the days. How I have to force myself out of bed, propel myself into the world. I don't know if this is the result of grief for mom's death or the whole process she and I went through with her cancer and hospice. What does not show is my almost embarrassment at being so torn up at mom's death because a parent is supposed to die. Mom was 73. All the celebrities who have died since her (which remarkably are quite a few) were younger than her. So why is it so hard. I read other's awful losses of children, babies, partners, spouses, and I think - it was "only" my mom. It's normal. But I know, the logical response is "she was your mom. It's ok to mourn." But yeah I have that feeling of well it's been a couple of months, not even actually, but things should be getting back to order now.
But they're not. I went back to work about a week ago and it just feels like people expect normal. But I don't know what normal is. And I don't feel like I'm answering this prompt correctly at all. And yes, I know there is no "correct". I'm full of dichotomy and understand every side of it. If that makes any sense. Yes, I am sad but am embarrassed about it. But I know it's ok to be sad. That sort of thing.
Maybe that's the thing. On the surface I show one thing but beneath is the real me. I think I've always felt pretty genuine, putting myself out there honestly and openly. But now, I feel there's a wall and I'm not comfortable with it. I've felt it with those who I am closest with. They want me to smile. They want me to be happy. So I am. Or rather, I pretend. To keep others happy. Perhaps that's my way of coping. I am a people pleaser for sure. Sometimes I actually achieve happiness and that's a beautiful moment. Why is it so hard to show our sadnesses to the world? Is it the fact that vulnerability is so hard? Do we act in ways we believe are expected? Am I being protective?
What doesn't show is that I want absolutely NO responsibility right now. I want to hibernate. I feel the need to recover although I don't know if that's the right word. For all of my feelings of gratitude for being mom's "one", it was hard. Really really hard. I don't tell anyone that. I shrug it off. It's too intimate to discuss. I haven't told anyone how when mom passed her head tilted toward me and she had one tear coming out of her eye that was toward me. I didn't see it at first, but my husband pointed it out. Perhaps it was her way of saying goodbye. Perhaps it was an involuntary body thing. Who knows.
People don't know that I feel ashamed for being glad she passed, that her death wasn't prolonged as it could have been. My life changed in a blink of an eye and while I can't say I resented it, there were definitely times when I wished it wasn't happening, that I could be elsewhere, that I could just run. And that makes me feel ashamed. So I brush off the nicenesses people share with me. "Anyone would do it." But I know deep down that's not true and I'm also secretly proud of myself for doing it, for being able to do it, to being able to give mom what she needed. For being able to hold it together, manage everything and not fall apart. I'm just really all over the place.
Oh what people don't know also is that I haven yet to be able to sit down and write thank you notes. I'm mortified, but that task just sits in this pile and I can't bring myself to do it. I gave myself deadline after deadline and there they sit. People will understand. Or will criticize behind my back. It doesn't matter. I will manage it in my own time.
What also does not show is my inability to get things accomplished. I lose my will halfway through projects. I don't care overly much at work. I hope that wears off. it seems like every day there's another bill to be dealt with. Another account I have to call. More junk mail addressed to mom with the words "urgent / offer ending soon!" It makes me grimly chuckle. I have to get to the bank to straighten a small matter out, and bring the death certificate with me. I am frozen. I cannot do it. I need to do it. But it's so final. So goddamned final. I have most of mom's clothes sorted and put into my car to be dropped off at the thrift store. I cannot do it. Those bags may be there for quite awhile.
And sometimes I'm fine. I'm finding my working out to be a really good way of coping. My fibromyalgia kicked into overdrive when mom got sick. I told my doc I hurt everywhere. She said "of course you do. Look at the stress you're under." She advised walking. Lots of walking and dark glasses for the tears that will spring up. She's a wonderful woman. About a month ago I began swimming and when I'm in the water I don't think about mom at all. or at least rarely. I'm building my endurance and usually I'm more concerned about breathing than anything else. It's a really good thing for me both emotionally and physically. I walk out of the gym feeling somewhat normal and centered. Then I pull into home and look for mom sitting on the porch and she's not there and it's jarring every time. I don't really understand the sadness perhaps. I just don't know.
I don't want to acknowledge the pain underneath. I don't want to do it. I don't know if I need to do it. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel like, how I'm supposed to act, what I'm supposed to do. So I soldier on and get through the days. Today I began wishing for bed at about noon. I had a swim after work at 5:30 and got home before 7. I'll get to bed around 10.
I hope sleep comes easily.
What does not show is how hard it is to get through the days. How I have to force myself out of bed, propel myself into the world. I don't know if this is the result of grief for mom's death or the whole process she and I went through with her cancer and hospice. What does not show is my almost embarrassment at being so torn up at mom's death because a parent is supposed to die. Mom was 73. All the celebrities who have died since her (which remarkably are quite a few) were younger than her. So why is it so hard. I read other's awful losses of children, babies, partners, spouses, and I think - it was "only" my mom. It's normal. But I know, the logical response is "she was your mom. It's ok to mourn." But yeah I have that feeling of well it's been a couple of months, not even actually, but things should be getting back to order now.
But they're not. I went back to work about a week ago and it just feels like people expect normal. But I don't know what normal is. And I don't feel like I'm answering this prompt correctly at all. And yes, I know there is no "correct". I'm full of dichotomy and understand every side of it. If that makes any sense. Yes, I am sad but am embarrassed about it. But I know it's ok to be sad. That sort of thing.
Maybe that's the thing. On the surface I show one thing but beneath is the real me. I think I've always felt pretty genuine, putting myself out there honestly and openly. But now, I feel there's a wall and I'm not comfortable with it. I've felt it with those who I am closest with. They want me to smile. They want me to be happy. So I am. Or rather, I pretend. To keep others happy. Perhaps that's my way of coping. I am a people pleaser for sure. Sometimes I actually achieve happiness and that's a beautiful moment. Why is it so hard to show our sadnesses to the world? Is it the fact that vulnerability is so hard? Do we act in ways we believe are expected? Am I being protective?
What doesn't show is that I want absolutely NO responsibility right now. I want to hibernate. I feel the need to recover although I don't know if that's the right word. For all of my feelings of gratitude for being mom's "one", it was hard. Really really hard. I don't tell anyone that. I shrug it off. It's too intimate to discuss. I haven't told anyone how when mom passed her head tilted toward me and she had one tear coming out of her eye that was toward me. I didn't see it at first, but my husband pointed it out. Perhaps it was her way of saying goodbye. Perhaps it was an involuntary body thing. Who knows.
People don't know that I feel ashamed for being glad she passed, that her death wasn't prolonged as it could have been. My life changed in a blink of an eye and while I can't say I resented it, there were definitely times when I wished it wasn't happening, that I could be elsewhere, that I could just run. And that makes me feel ashamed. So I brush off the nicenesses people share with me. "Anyone would do it." But I know deep down that's not true and I'm also secretly proud of myself for doing it, for being able to do it, to being able to give mom what she needed. For being able to hold it together, manage everything and not fall apart. I'm just really all over the place.
Oh what people don't know also is that I haven yet to be able to sit down and write thank you notes. I'm mortified, but that task just sits in this pile and I can't bring myself to do it. I gave myself deadline after deadline and there they sit. People will understand. Or will criticize behind my back. It doesn't matter. I will manage it in my own time.
What also does not show is my inability to get things accomplished. I lose my will halfway through projects. I don't care overly much at work. I hope that wears off. it seems like every day there's another bill to be dealt with. Another account I have to call. More junk mail addressed to mom with the words "urgent / offer ending soon!" It makes me grimly chuckle. I have to get to the bank to straighten a small matter out, and bring the death certificate with me. I am frozen. I cannot do it. I need to do it. But it's so final. So goddamned final. I have most of mom's clothes sorted and put into my car to be dropped off at the thrift store. I cannot do it. Those bags may be there for quite awhile.
And sometimes I'm fine. I'm finding my working out to be a really good way of coping. My fibromyalgia kicked into overdrive when mom got sick. I told my doc I hurt everywhere. She said "of course you do. Look at the stress you're under." She advised walking. Lots of walking and dark glasses for the tears that will spring up. She's a wonderful woman. About a month ago I began swimming and when I'm in the water I don't think about mom at all. or at least rarely. I'm building my endurance and usually I'm more concerned about breathing than anything else. It's a really good thing for me both emotionally and physically. I walk out of the gym feeling somewhat normal and centered. Then I pull into home and look for mom sitting on the porch and she's not there and it's jarring every time. I don't really understand the sadness perhaps. I just don't know.
I don't want to acknowledge the pain underneath. I don't want to do it. I don't know if I need to do it. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel like, how I'm supposed to act, what I'm supposed to do. So I soldier on and get through the days. Today I began wishing for bed at about noon. I had a swim after work at 5:30 and got home before 7. I'll get to bed around 10.
I hope sleep comes easily.
Monday, June 6, 2016
Day One prompt
"I don't have a name. I don't know what to do.
The only thing I know for certain is that I must begin to heal.
The only thing I know for certain is that I must begin to heal.
Just like every time my life was re-created, I had to begin restoring the foundered part of my being: the lost relationships, the familiarity of a neighborhood, the sense of the person I might have been. There is an algebraic term for the technique for distributing two binomials, called the FOIL method. It stands for first, outer; inner, last. And that is exactly how I have learned to repair myself time after time: from the outside in."
p.233 "The Girl She Used to Be," by David Cristofano
p.233 "The Girl She Used to Be," by David Cristofano
Who was the person you used to be?
You might start today's writing with "I don't have a name. I don't know what to do. I am not the person I used to be..."
I do have a name. I know who I am. I also know that there is another thing inside me pushing through and altering who I know myself to be. I feel the wicked snappiness. I hold about 90% of it in. The 10% that I let out terrifies me. I don't want to be some witchy person, always on edge.
So I balance it by being overly sweet and trying to find my zen peace. I'm friendly to people on the outside. I only begin to break when someone approaches and says "how are you" and I know they mean no, really - how ARE you. That is when the tears start. They spring forth unbidden unwelcome at the stupidest times. My boss was dictating to me one day and they just started. He asked if I was ok and I just shook my head no and he said he would be back. Lol It's unbidden this grief.
How do I reconcile the whirlwind I feel inside with the grounded in control person I have always been. How do I recond lie these two/ I want the centering. I need the centering. It's who I am. Yet now, the work it takes to center myself to ground myself is exhausting. I don't sleep so I don't have the energy some days to cover it up and I just feel like a powder keg.
I function. I get lost sometimes in my tasks at work or cleaning at home. Then I get that overwhelmed feeling and just want to crawl into bed with a book. But I know I won't sleep so then I get anxious and it's a cycle that never ends.
I make plans. I go out. I sometimes don't want to but I force myself to. I know it makes other people concerned about me happy wh en they see me trying. Some know how hard it is to try. Others don't.
I try to begin new patterns to change things up. Mom was a part of our lives for a long time. I feel her. I can't bring myself to brush off the couch sphere she used to sit. Her hair that she lost from chemo is still on the couch and I can't bear to remove it. No one else knows it's there.
Intellectually I try. I put on a good face. I don't want people worried about me. I know people suffer through much worse. But that doesn't mean that I should negate my journey. The responsibility of being mom's caretaker was who I became and it happened SO quickly. Just this thought brings me back to her eyes when we got the news from the doctor. So so scared I felt our roles flip in that instant. I had to be strong. Well I am a strong person, but this - this tested me. And in the end I had to be strong enough to help her accept her death. There was one day that's particularly haunting me, the day she got the catheter put in. She knew it would make her bed bound. She knew she was exhausted just standing let alone getting to the commode one foot away. She would whisper "Lisa, I'm so tired of this shit". I knew what she needed. But when our nurse came with the cath the next day - Mom said she did't think she was ready for it "yet". I was appalled. I don't think I hid my frustration well. I hadn't slept in three nights, helping her every two hours to go to the commode. I was exhausted and insisted that it was time.
Mom, God bless her, she acquiesced and I knew, just knew, that this was one of those "momemts". A point of no return. I feel guilt that I steered her. I feel guilt that I am the one who administered the morphine which eased her pain and which led to her death. I am honored also to have been the one, but to BE the one well some days I struggle with where the positivity is in it all. She was in pain. She had disease everywhere. She was ready. She had done her emotional work. Said her goodbyes. We hadn't though. She thanked me very often. She often told me I was giving her the best care she could possibly wish for. When I'd bring her her favorite food, she would act like I was treating her like a queen. her humility is beautiful. I was raging inside, trying to make her happy in any stupid small way I could and she graciously accepted my efforts and was so damned delighted.
And now somehow real life has come again. I'm back to work, parenting, friending, etc. and I've got this other person inside who doesn't know what to do with these memories. I don't know HOW to heal her. I don't know what to do for her so that I can feel whole again.
Everyone loses their parents. It's the natural order of things. I knew mom would die young-ish. She had bad health. It's not like losing a child or a baby or a spouse. There is no inherent tragedy in the whole thing. She smoked her whole life and got lung cancer. She ignored her health and go figure, she died a rough death. It's not a true tragedy in my mind. But to ME, to ME, it's a tragedy. No one will ever love me the way my mom loved me. I could do no wrong in her mind. She thought I was awesome. I will always cling to that. I am a good person, but she thought I was amazing. Perhaps it's how I look at my own daughters. Food for thought.
How do I get back to the balanced happy person. What is my path. What was the point. Is there a heaven. Is she happy. Is she ok. Sometimes the questions make the thought of ever finding my way back to myself seem like an impossibility. So perhaps I'll have to become a new person, but at this point all I can think is the negativity that is the new person hidden inside. Somewhere there has to be good to come of this. I did it for a good reason. I wanted to serve my mom, to honor her, to be there for her as she was fr my my entire 50 years. There has to be GOOD in that. Desperately seeking the upside.
Guilt
I have a bad bout of IBS today. Joy. Came home at lunch for Imodium and Xanax. A and on thought popped into my head. About the day mom had her catheter inserted. She hadn't wanted it. But medically she needed it. I realize now that she submitted to it because I insisted. She was in high danger of taking a bad fall. She was on lots of meds which made her unstable. But that catch landed her into the hospital bed which she fought so much. Because she knew. She knew so much and I'm just now catching up to her. So the thoughts float through me - should I have given her more time without the cath? Or was I guiding her helping with her fears because she was so done. "I'm done with this shit." She could not believe how weak she was when she would stand to pee on the commode. How much it hurt to move two feet. My mind knows it was the right timing and also inevitable but there are some negative emotions under there.
Sunday, June 5, 2016
First week back
all I know is that I feel emotionally drained. The insomnia is back big time. I'm shaky and exhausted. I want to go swim but don't think the workout will be a good one. Who knows. Close to tears. All week. I even started crying when Ira was dictating. He saw and I couldn't choke it back. He was so cute. A speedy "I'll come back" and he ducked out. Lol very sweet and respectful.
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