7 birthdays missed, 7 Mother’s days celebrated by myself and 7 Christmas’ without her. 84 months of trying to figure out motherhood on my own and 84 months of missing her. 364 weeks of learning to trust myself, of growing up and trying to figure out who I am without her. 2555 days without hearing her voice or her laughter. 2555 days of wishing we had more time or wishing things could be different. December 16th marks the anniversary of my mother’s death and 2009 means that 7 years have passed.
I just can’t believe it’s been that long.
There’s no one to tell my kids what their mother was like when she was little. All the funny stories that they’d love to hear that I just can’t remember. All of the stories that make me unique and make me...well...me are gone with her. She wasn’t there to dance with my niece when she was a baby like she did with my kids when we couldn’t get them to settle. To songs like Hold Me, Kiss Me, Thrill me; a song that still has the ability to make Sarah feel happy and loved. She missed all of the awards the kids got at school, or graduation or the first day of high school.
There was no one to guide us through Dad’s mental illness. No one to yell at the doctors when he wasn’t getting better. No one to force Dad to fight through the cancer...She was the only one that could have done that. She wasn’t there when we had to say goodbye to dad even though we needed her then....so very much! And it breaks my heart when I think of all the wonderful things yet to come that she will be noticeably absent for. Like boyfriends, more graduations, weddings and my grandchildren being born. She should be here. For all of it!
How are we going to face another 7 years of doing it alone? Another 84 months of trying to remember her, trying to remember her laugh or the funny stories or all the wonderful memories. 364 weeks of juggling my mothering act without her pointing me in the right direction or being there to catch me if I fall, holding the safety net taut so that I just bounce back. Or 2555 days of missing everything about her, the way she was proud of me and the way she adored me.
We’ll handle it like we did the last 7. Hour by hour, day by day. And hopefully one day soon, we’ll wake up, see the sun shining and think about her - without sadness and without shedding a tear. We’ll just think about her smile.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Little Black Miracle?
I hate dress shopping. There. I said it! I’m always disappointed, there’s never a whole lot of ‘plus’ size selections and I always end up with something that ‘could really look good if’…I decided some time ago that it’s just my body – I don’t have the right body type to make a dress work and opt instead for 2 pieces. I have a really killer pencil skirt that show off my legs (my second best feature in my opinion) and that usually ends up being my go-to skirt for any occasions that could call for a dress.
So, I really didn’t like the idea of having to go dress shopping when my husband informed me that my pencil skirt wouldn’t cut it for his work Christmas party. I was shocked really. When I said this skirt looked good, I might have been under-playing it a little bit – I get a lot of attention whenever I wear it and the last time I wore it to work, my boss asked me how my husband let me out of the house looking that sexy. I really just wanted to be comfortable and wear my old reliable. But, it’s not every day that your husband insists you go shopping for a dress so I got into my body armor (my preference is the Body Wrap from Addition-Elle http://www.1-plus.com/addition-elle-shapewear-Body-Wrap-hi-waist-brief-panty_stcVVproductId62508938VVcatId545011VVviewprod.htm) and had Sarah and Bella tagging along to give me as much constructive criticism that they could at 14 and 10 respectively.
My first stop was to Addition-Elle, my favourite plus size store. A sales lady headed our way almost immediately and I explained what we were looking for. Her reaction – “I’m not sure what we have in YOUR size”, almost had me running right out of the store. I was immediately deflated and could feel the tears welling up. I mean, it’s not like I was in a regular size store expecting them to have things in my size. I was in a store that specializes in clothing my size. In fact I’d go so far as to say my size, is the most popular plus size (mostly because I can never find my size). Like, is it really necessary to go there at all? Maybe a tad bit unprofessional given the fact it’s a plus size store. Was making me feel like shit worth potentially losing the sale? It’s not like us plus size gals have that many options for crying out loud! But, I decided to take the high road and ignore it. I wasn’t exactly ready for a whole weight debate in front of my daughters with a lady who was probably the same size as me. So needless to say, my hopes of finding a dress that looked good were wearing a little thin by that point.
Shaking it off, I pulled every dress the store had in my size (5 out of the 7 dresses they had total…not bad considering she didn’t think there was anything in MY size). Sarah and Bella were surprisingly amazing. Voicing their opinions on what they thought worked and what they thought didn’t and we quickly realized that the first 4 dresses just weren’t going to cut it for various reasons. Still deflated, I tried on the last dress. Terrified that if I didn’t look at least OK in it I was going to have to face the sales lady’s ‘I told you so’ stare as we walked out of the store empty handed. I put it on and faced the mirror pleasantly surprised with my reflection. It was more than OK. I looked downright fantastic and my girls’ collective sigh when I walked out of the change room confirmed it. I almost cried, having tried for years to find a dress that made me feel the way this dress did, confident and beautiful.
I hurried to the cash, desperate to own this little black miracle, sporting my own ‘I told you so’ stare. It didn’t matter that she wouldn’t look me in the eye while ringing up my purchase. I found it. It’s mine. And it was half price.
I won this round!
So, I really didn’t like the idea of having to go dress shopping when my husband informed me that my pencil skirt wouldn’t cut it for his work Christmas party. I was shocked really. When I said this skirt looked good, I might have been under-playing it a little bit – I get a lot of attention whenever I wear it and the last time I wore it to work, my boss asked me how my husband let me out of the house looking that sexy. I really just wanted to be comfortable and wear my old reliable. But, it’s not every day that your husband insists you go shopping for a dress so I got into my body armor (my preference is the Body Wrap from Addition-Elle http://www.1-plus.com/addition-elle-shapewear-Body-Wrap-hi-waist-brief-panty_stcVVproductId62508938VVcatId545011VVviewprod.htm) and had Sarah and Bella tagging along to give me as much constructive criticism that they could at 14 and 10 respectively.
My first stop was to Addition-Elle, my favourite plus size store. A sales lady headed our way almost immediately and I explained what we were looking for. Her reaction – “I’m not sure what we have in YOUR size”, almost had me running right out of the store. I was immediately deflated and could feel the tears welling up. I mean, it’s not like I was in a regular size store expecting them to have things in my size. I was in a store that specializes in clothing my size. In fact I’d go so far as to say my size, is the most popular plus size (mostly because I can never find my size). Like, is it really necessary to go there at all? Maybe a tad bit unprofessional given the fact it’s a plus size store. Was making me feel like shit worth potentially losing the sale? It’s not like us plus size gals have that many options for crying out loud! But, I decided to take the high road and ignore it. I wasn’t exactly ready for a whole weight debate in front of my daughters with a lady who was probably the same size as me. So needless to say, my hopes of finding a dress that looked good were wearing a little thin by that point.
Shaking it off, I pulled every dress the store had in my size (5 out of the 7 dresses they had total…not bad considering she didn’t think there was anything in MY size). Sarah and Bella were surprisingly amazing. Voicing their opinions on what they thought worked and what they thought didn’t and we quickly realized that the first 4 dresses just weren’t going to cut it for various reasons. Still deflated, I tried on the last dress. Terrified that if I didn’t look at least OK in it I was going to have to face the sales lady’s ‘I told you so’ stare as we walked out of the store empty handed. I put it on and faced the mirror pleasantly surprised with my reflection. It was more than OK. I looked downright fantastic and my girls’ collective sigh when I walked out of the change room confirmed it. I almost cried, having tried for years to find a dress that made me feel the way this dress did, confident and beautiful.
I hurried to the cash, desperate to own this little black miracle, sporting my own ‘I told you so’ stare. It didn’t matter that she wouldn’t look me in the eye while ringing up my purchase. I found it. It’s mine. And it was half price.
I won this round!
Monday, November 30, 2009
Dad...
So, I lost both of my parents very young. You know my mom died when she was 48 years old and you know how. You know my dad died 5 years later. He was 53. But, I haven’t yet talked about how he died. Some of you might be assuming suicide since there were so many attempts and in a way, you might be right. However, suicide is not what is on his death certificate.
In August 2006, we took my dad back to the hospital. He was having suicidal thoughts again so we took him back for yet another 72 hr hold so that he could be assessed. A couple of days in, Dad calls and asks me to stop by earlier than normal so that I can sit in on his doctors appointment. This request wasn’t all that unusual. He had asked me to make arrangements to hear what the doctors had to say before. We usually talked about stuff like medication or tips to help stabilize him and once the psychiatrist tried to reprimand me for taking too much control – that my dad couldn’t learn to take care of himself unless I relinquished some of it (I usually laughed at him when he said that in total disbelief considering that all of this control was what was keeping him as stable as he could be at that point! They didn’t even have his meds stabilized and I was supposed to loosen my grip? Seriously!). I made it to the hospital prepared to have this battle yet again with his psychiatrist but when I got there, there was another doctor in the room. An oncologist explained that they didn’t like my dad’s blood work so they ran further tests and found it. Cancer. As if a bipolar father already completely dependent on you wasn’t enough. We now had a new diagnosis; non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.
I retreated. From everyone. I pulled back my mental armies and tried desperately to regroup but for the first time in my life, I couldn’t find the strength to prepare for this new battle. My armor had holes in it and I had nothing left. Luckily, I am fortunate enough to have people in my life that wouldn’t let me retreat for very long. Jen called every day to talk to me about nothing and everything all at once and I eventually found my groove again. My husband did a lot of yelling to try and snap me out of it and I’m not really sure what worked but little by little I was able to find my voice again and I was yelling right back at him. I got my fight back and started coordinating appointments for his recovery and my world began to include chemotherapy and appointments about bone marrow transplants. And I don’t know how I would have got through it all without Linda and Steve - the 2 people that helped me out the most logistically with dr’s appointments and chemo and hospital visits. I could thank them every day for the rest of my life and I’m not sure it would ever be enough.
In the end though, having my fight back wasn’t good enough. It really wasn’t me that had to do the battle and my dad lost his fighting power the second my mother died. He just didn’t have it in him and only went along with it. He had his chemo because I told him to, blood transfusions because I said so, took his meds (both cancer ones and bipolar ones) because I sat there and made him do it and told me he wanted to live because he thought it was what I wanted to hear. It didn’t matter how hard I fought because he had already made his choice. Cancer was his suicide and less than a year later he was gone. Reunited with mom – the one person he just couldn’t live without.
In August 2006, we took my dad back to the hospital. He was having suicidal thoughts again so we took him back for yet another 72 hr hold so that he could be assessed. A couple of days in, Dad calls and asks me to stop by earlier than normal so that I can sit in on his doctors appointment. This request wasn’t all that unusual. He had asked me to make arrangements to hear what the doctors had to say before. We usually talked about stuff like medication or tips to help stabilize him and once the psychiatrist tried to reprimand me for taking too much control – that my dad couldn’t learn to take care of himself unless I relinquished some of it (I usually laughed at him when he said that in total disbelief considering that all of this control was what was keeping him as stable as he could be at that point! They didn’t even have his meds stabilized and I was supposed to loosen my grip? Seriously!). I made it to the hospital prepared to have this battle yet again with his psychiatrist but when I got there, there was another doctor in the room. An oncologist explained that they didn’t like my dad’s blood work so they ran further tests and found it. Cancer. As if a bipolar father already completely dependent on you wasn’t enough. We now had a new diagnosis; non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.
I retreated. From everyone. I pulled back my mental armies and tried desperately to regroup but for the first time in my life, I couldn’t find the strength to prepare for this new battle. My armor had holes in it and I had nothing left. Luckily, I am fortunate enough to have people in my life that wouldn’t let me retreat for very long. Jen called every day to talk to me about nothing and everything all at once and I eventually found my groove again. My husband did a lot of yelling to try and snap me out of it and I’m not really sure what worked but little by little I was able to find my voice again and I was yelling right back at him. I got my fight back and started coordinating appointments for his recovery and my world began to include chemotherapy and appointments about bone marrow transplants. And I don’t know how I would have got through it all without Linda and Steve - the 2 people that helped me out the most logistically with dr’s appointments and chemo and hospital visits. I could thank them every day for the rest of my life and I’m not sure it would ever be enough.
In the end though, having my fight back wasn’t good enough. It really wasn’t me that had to do the battle and my dad lost his fighting power the second my mother died. He just didn’t have it in him and only went along with it. He had his chemo because I told him to, blood transfusions because I said so, took his meds (both cancer ones and bipolar ones) because I sat there and made him do it and told me he wanted to live because he thought it was what I wanted to hear. It didn’t matter how hard I fought because he had already made his choice. Cancer was his suicide and less than a year later he was gone. Reunited with mom – the one person he just couldn’t live without.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Are we nuts?
We did it! We took the plunge. It’s been a couple of days now and it’s been crazy and exhausting and wonderful. I might be a little bit crazy considering just how hectic the last 7 years have been but I think we’re ready for the commitment. Ready for the companionship, the training, the responsibility and the unconditional love.
Bella is living in constant fear for the lives of her beloved Webkinz. Running herself ragged making sure none of them are ever on the floor and that they are all safe and sound in her room. She’s having these awful daydreams of them being torn to shreds and their fluffy entrails tossed around the room. And, let’s be honest. She can’t keep this up forever. She might actually lose one or two! Sarah figures she’s safe. Most of her beloved possessions are drawings she’s worked incredibly hard on. But let’s face it. I’m not sure all that paper lying around is such a good idea. She better be careful before she finds that something not so special has been added to all her hard work.
Well folks, we got a puppy. She’s a beautiful grey Catahoula and we are smitten. And I think she’s settling in pretty well so far. She’s discovered that her favourite place to sit or sleep is at my feet and a close second is underneath the end table. We’ve had to re-fill the ice cube tray more than once (her old owners weren’t kidding – she loves them!) and she’s loving the big backyard that was going to waste before we brought her home. She is very excitable and is nipping quite a bit but she is in a new environment and she is a puppy (although, I would welcome any tips to try and break her of the nipping!) and I’m sure she’ll settle down before too long. I forgot how funny it was when puppies just flop to the floor and I love how she grabs the leash after I put it on - sort of like she’s taking us for a walk. And we’re getting used to her little cues for when she needs to go outside – only 2 accidents so far and they were totally our fault. We just stared at her wondering why she was acting so weird. Although, I think she has tricked me once or twice because I took her out a couple of times and there was no peeing…that doesn’t mean she’s smarter than me does it?
What I didn’t realize was that this puppy would be such a great tool parenting wise. I’m not above bribery as a parent and it’s nice to see my kids helping out a little bit more around the house with absolutely no provocation from me. None whatsoever! It’s been great. Although, I don’t expect them to keep it up for much longer and then I’ll have to start nagging them. Ah bribery and nagging. I should be getting my fabulous mom award real soon. They said it was in the mail!
Bella is living in constant fear for the lives of her beloved Webkinz. Running herself ragged making sure none of them are ever on the floor and that they are all safe and sound in her room. She’s having these awful daydreams of them being torn to shreds and their fluffy entrails tossed around the room. And, let’s be honest. She can’t keep this up forever. She might actually lose one or two! Sarah figures she’s safe. Most of her beloved possessions are drawings she’s worked incredibly hard on. But let’s face it. I’m not sure all that paper lying around is such a good idea. She better be careful before she finds that something not so special has been added to all her hard work.
Well folks, we got a puppy. She’s a beautiful grey Catahoula and we are smitten. And I think she’s settling in pretty well so far. She’s discovered that her favourite place to sit or sleep is at my feet and a close second is underneath the end table. We’ve had to re-fill the ice cube tray more than once (her old owners weren’t kidding – she loves them!) and she’s loving the big backyard that was going to waste before we brought her home. She is very excitable and is nipping quite a bit but she is in a new environment and she is a puppy (although, I would welcome any tips to try and break her of the nipping!) and I’m sure she’ll settle down before too long. I forgot how funny it was when puppies just flop to the floor and I love how she grabs the leash after I put it on - sort of like she’s taking us for a walk. And we’re getting used to her little cues for when she needs to go outside – only 2 accidents so far and they were totally our fault. We just stared at her wondering why she was acting so weird. Although, I think she has tricked me once or twice because I took her out a couple of times and there was no peeing…that doesn’t mean she’s smarter than me does it?
What I didn’t realize was that this puppy would be such a great tool parenting wise. I’m not above bribery as a parent and it’s nice to see my kids helping out a little bit more around the house with absolutely no provocation from me. None whatsoever! It’s been great. Although, I don’t expect them to keep it up for much longer and then I’ll have to start nagging them. Ah bribery and nagging. I should be getting my fabulous mom award real soon. They said it was in the mail!
Sunday, November 15, 2009
That's My Girl !!!
I’m 34 years old and I’m not ready for boys. Especially not those Eddie Haskell types that rush up to introduce themselves to you, enthusiastically shake your hand and try to make awkward small talk while you eye them skeptically. You see, my daughter just turned 14 and I’ve been dreading this next stage. Mostly because I’m forced to the realization that she’s not my baby anymore. Forced to say goodbye to the pigtails and say hello to the eye rolling when I lovingly call her ‘SarBear’. She’s becoming a woman and if I’ve done my job correctly, she’ll be strong, smart and sure of herself and be in a much better place than I was at her age.
My husband is handling this worse than I am. A couple of weeks ago I was heading up the stairs after putting the last load of laundry into the washing machine. Patting myself on the back because I was caught up for the first time in months and I walked into total complete darkness. You see, boys had knocked on the door and asked for Sarah and I found my husband in the office pulling the blinds back ever so slightly while he watched. When he noticed I was there he explained what he was doing (and why he had turned off the lights) and I jokingly said, ‘why don’t you open the window so you can hear them too’! And looking more serious than I had seen in years he exclaimed ‘what a great idea!’ I think we’re in for a few rough years ahead…
Recently we found out that one of these boys is leaving with his parents for a year in Mexico and there was a sort of going away party for him which we reluctantly let her go to. This boy (aka Eddie Haskell) ended up walking her home and on the way home he confessed to Sarah that he liked her. That he really liked her. And my smart, beautiful young daughter Han Solo’d him. That’s right folks. She looked him in the eye, smiled sweetly and said, “I know.” I didn’t know whether to laugh, reprimand her for her insensitivity or applaud her confidence. Naturally I opted for the standing ovation, thrilled that my daughter can hold her own much better than I ever could at 14.
And it occurs to me that even after everything we’ve been through and that I really miss not having my mom around to talk to about all of this foreign territory, we must be doing something right.
Honestly though…I’m really glad this boy is moving to Mexico for a year!!
My husband is handling this worse than I am. A couple of weeks ago I was heading up the stairs after putting the last load of laundry into the washing machine. Patting myself on the back because I was caught up for the first time in months and I walked into total complete darkness. You see, boys had knocked on the door and asked for Sarah and I found my husband in the office pulling the blinds back ever so slightly while he watched. When he noticed I was there he explained what he was doing (and why he had turned off the lights) and I jokingly said, ‘why don’t you open the window so you can hear them too’! And looking more serious than I had seen in years he exclaimed ‘what a great idea!’ I think we’re in for a few rough years ahead…
Recently we found out that one of these boys is leaving with his parents for a year in Mexico and there was a sort of going away party for him which we reluctantly let her go to. This boy (aka Eddie Haskell) ended up walking her home and on the way home he confessed to Sarah that he liked her. That he really liked her. And my smart, beautiful young daughter Han Solo’d him. That’s right folks. She looked him in the eye, smiled sweetly and said, “I know.” I didn’t know whether to laugh, reprimand her for her insensitivity or applaud her confidence. Naturally I opted for the standing ovation, thrilled that my daughter can hold her own much better than I ever could at 14.
And it occurs to me that even after everything we’ve been through and that I really miss not having my mom around to talk to about all of this foreign territory, we must be doing something right.
Honestly though…I’m really glad this boy is moving to Mexico for a year!!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
It's Nothing Like the Movies :(
The first time I visited my dad in the psyche ward, I was a little bit disappointed. After I had answered a few basic questions and was granted access, I expected to see Jack Nicholson or Brad Pitt hanging around, getting the other patients all riled up – basically causing mischief of some sort. Maybe a sane Bruce Willis stuck there when he was supposed to be out in society collecting information to save his world from the future. I expected to see people standing still, drooling and staring blankly into space because they had been medicated for reasons they really only make up in the movies. Nothing was what I had expected. It was all so…normal. People keeping to themselves really. Reading, watching TV, doing laundry and taking a cigarette break while politely nodding and exchanging courtesies with other patients and visitors.
Now don’t get me wrong, my visits with my dad had their…um…quirks! There was one lady who was lovely. She adored my dad and we all had some really good conversations about lots of different things. But…she really loved her sweater dresses (80’s style – big chunky sweaters belted around the middle with huge shoulder pads)! Only…I’m not sure she realized that a regular old fashioned sweater wasn’t the same thing as the sweater dresses from her youth. It was really hard maintaining eye contact, especially on the days she decided not to wear her lady underthings. I was always worrying that my concentration would slip and I’d look. I mean, it had to be rude to look and I was horrified in a weak moment when I let my eyes drift and I panicked - oh shit…I can’t believe I looked…did she see me look? Should I pretend I didn’t look? *groan* - what is the proper etiquette for moments like that?
One afternoon we were sitting in the common room (really just a TV surrounded by couches) watching something and not really talking, sort of just letting the time pass when out of the corner of my eye I saw a very young, beautiful woman walk into the room. She was stunning and confident and I couldn’t look away, my jaw had dropped. She was also stark naked. That was the only time I witnessed all hell break loose. She started to yell and scream at the nurses and guards when they asked her to go back to her room. The situation escalated and it took 4 security guards to subdue her. 4! And all I could think about during it all was that I have never looked that good naked and I drove home completely absorbed in my own self pity, silently wishing that I looked as good as she did.
And while it was eye-opening and refreshing to see how normal it all was with just a touch of weirdness, it was still disappointing to discover that my beloved movies don’t really give you the real picture. Fingers crossed that this is the only anomaly between movies and real life. They mimic real life the rest of the time right?
Now don’t get me wrong, my visits with my dad had their…um…quirks! There was one lady who was lovely. She adored my dad and we all had some really good conversations about lots of different things. But…she really loved her sweater dresses (80’s style – big chunky sweaters belted around the middle with huge shoulder pads)! Only…I’m not sure she realized that a regular old fashioned sweater wasn’t the same thing as the sweater dresses from her youth. It was really hard maintaining eye contact, especially on the days she decided not to wear her lady underthings. I was always worrying that my concentration would slip and I’d look. I mean, it had to be rude to look and I was horrified in a weak moment when I let my eyes drift and I panicked - oh shit…I can’t believe I looked…did she see me look? Should I pretend I didn’t look? *groan* - what is the proper etiquette for moments like that?
One afternoon we were sitting in the common room (really just a TV surrounded by couches) watching something and not really talking, sort of just letting the time pass when out of the corner of my eye I saw a very young, beautiful woman walk into the room. She was stunning and confident and I couldn’t look away, my jaw had dropped. She was also stark naked. That was the only time I witnessed all hell break loose. She started to yell and scream at the nurses and guards when they asked her to go back to her room. The situation escalated and it took 4 security guards to subdue her. 4! And all I could think about during it all was that I have never looked that good naked and I drove home completely absorbed in my own self pity, silently wishing that I looked as good as she did.
And while it was eye-opening and refreshing to see how normal it all was with just a touch of weirdness, it was still disappointing to discover that my beloved movies don’t really give you the real picture. Fingers crossed that this is the only anomaly between movies and real life. They mimic real life the rest of the time right?
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Best and Worst Time of the Year...
This is my favourite time of year. The leaves are changing colour, the air is crisper and Santa season is right around the corner. There are so many great holidays this time of year – Thanksgiving, Halloween, Christmas and the grand finale – New Years! Holiday parties and shopping for just the right gifts. The first snowfall (as long as I don’t have to drive in it!) and the first snowman and snow angels. Hot chocolate, trimming our tree and humming to the wonderful melodies we all know by heart. This is what I’ve worked so hard for all year – it’s my reward, my pat on the back!
Simultaneously, this is also the worst time of the year for me. The time of year where I force those walls back up and paste a smile on my face trying to hide how emotionally overwhelming it really is. The time of year where crying and driving is at an all time high. It started ten years ago - all of this history occurring within the last weeks of the year - when my Grandpa died. The first time I had experienced death really. I adored my Grandpa and was devastated. Then seven years ago was probably the worst year of my life. My Nana died first – a fabulous woman from the tips of her vibrant red hair down to her polished toe nails. A woman who had a brooch on every single coat and who probably owned every skin care product ever invented. My husband’s grandmother was next – just a few short weeks after Nana. A woman so incredible we felt compelled to name our daughter after her. And then the climax – a couple more weeks go by and then my mom - who died far too soon and who I still miss...so much. And interspersed with all of this, we have my mom’s birthday (tomorrow!) and next month, my dad’s birthday.
I can’t help but be reminded of all that I’ve lost and all that I’ll miss out on. And I can’t help but think, has enough time gone by? Should I be over it already? If so, how? How does one move past dwelling on the bad times? It’s not like I do it all the time mind you but this time of year is just incredibly difficult and after seven years, I still haven’t figured out how to move past it. How to let myself just feel without the tears, to genuinely smile without the walls while allowing myself to remember it all...the good and the bad.
I’ll be thinking a lot about my mom tomorrow. She would have been 55 years old. I’ll feel sorry for myself and I’ll probably cry in the car on the way to work. I’ll talk to the girls about her and just try to get through the day minute by minute...hour by hour. Maybe I’ll get them to start on their Christmas lists this weekend. Retail therapy never hurt anyone...right?
Simultaneously, this is also the worst time of the year for me. The time of year where I force those walls back up and paste a smile on my face trying to hide how emotionally overwhelming it really is. The time of year where crying and driving is at an all time high. It started ten years ago - all of this history occurring within the last weeks of the year - when my Grandpa died. The first time I had experienced death really. I adored my Grandpa and was devastated. Then seven years ago was probably the worst year of my life. My Nana died first – a fabulous woman from the tips of her vibrant red hair down to her polished toe nails. A woman who had a brooch on every single coat and who probably owned every skin care product ever invented. My husband’s grandmother was next – just a few short weeks after Nana. A woman so incredible we felt compelled to name our daughter after her. And then the climax – a couple more weeks go by and then my mom - who died far too soon and who I still miss...so much. And interspersed with all of this, we have my mom’s birthday (tomorrow!) and next month, my dad’s birthday.
I can’t help but be reminded of all that I’ve lost and all that I’ll miss out on. And I can’t help but think, has enough time gone by? Should I be over it already? If so, how? How does one move past dwelling on the bad times? It’s not like I do it all the time mind you but this time of year is just incredibly difficult and after seven years, I still haven’t figured out how to move past it. How to let myself just feel without the tears, to genuinely smile without the walls while allowing myself to remember it all...the good and the bad.
I’ll be thinking a lot about my mom tomorrow. She would have been 55 years old. I’ll feel sorry for myself and I’ll probably cry in the car on the way to work. I’ll talk to the girls about her and just try to get through the day minute by minute...hour by hour. Maybe I’ll get them to start on their Christmas lists this weekend. Retail therapy never hurt anyone...right?
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Down Anastasia!
Right now, I’m sitting in the cafeteria at work. It’s actually quite a beautiful spot. I’m surrounded by windows and through them a wonderful view. A pond, some lingering Canadian geese and lots of trees and shrubbery sporting typical fall foliage – the colours are breathtaking really. Inside, there are lots of conversations going on around me at once. It’s a hush that falls over the room, this muffled talking that surrounds me. I’m watching people who are rushed and only taking the time to buy their lunch; hurrying back to their desks and the mountains of work they feel obligated to return quickly to. Others are taking what is probably a much needed break (myself included). Just a few moments to get away realizing the re-charging power a break can give you. A break that prepares you for the crazy work-filled afternoon that is sure to follow. And in the midst of this lunchtime symphony, I sit here in the middle of the room completely invisible. Like I have borrowed Harry’s cloak. I can watch everyone yet no one can see me watching and it occurs to me that I take on multiple personalities on any given day at work.
Some days I am a fortune teller. I have a Russian accent and ridiculously long fingernails. I have a mole or two on my chin with hairs growing out of them and I’m surrounded by rich, deep shades of purple and royal blue. My name on these days is Anastasia (probably because I loved the animated film) and I have to look through my crystal ball to predict the future to ensure we make the right choices and keep our customers happy. Other times I am the ringleader of a circus. I imagine my name is Octavio (for some reason, I’m a man with this persona) and I’m tall and skinny. I have very bushy eyebrows, a handlebar mustache and my legs are insanely long compared to the rest of my body. It’s my job to entertain the crowd while keeping the show moving along. Making sure the clowns are doing their job (even though I really hate clowns) and wondering if the acrobats are performing as safely as they assure me they are or if they are just showing off. Every once in a while, when a show isn’t going so well, I’m punished. Blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back. Being pushed down the mouth of a cannon which the clowns threaten to light to propel me skyward and land who knows where. (Damn those clowns!) Sometimes, I am a nurse. Betty perhaps? (I think I watch way too many movies!) Taking care of the very sick, figuring out ways to make them feel better and yes, some days it feels like I’m changing bedpans. I’m short and blonde and I only wear the dress style uniform with the little hats that nurses wear in old movies. I wear white sneakers for comfort; the kind that squeak on the floor with every step. I am admired as Nurse Betty because I can usually mend what is broken and I work well under pressure when there is an emergency.
Its crazy busy at work these days and I long for my invisibility cloak. Something I can throw over my head when it gets to be too much and I want to take an hour to just hide and watch and be myself with all the other personalities tucked away in my desk drawer. I should take lunch breaks more often…I think Anastasia is starting to take over!
Some days I am a fortune teller. I have a Russian accent and ridiculously long fingernails. I have a mole or two on my chin with hairs growing out of them and I’m surrounded by rich, deep shades of purple and royal blue. My name on these days is Anastasia (probably because I loved the animated film) and I have to look through my crystal ball to predict the future to ensure we make the right choices and keep our customers happy. Other times I am the ringleader of a circus. I imagine my name is Octavio (for some reason, I’m a man with this persona) and I’m tall and skinny. I have very bushy eyebrows, a handlebar mustache and my legs are insanely long compared to the rest of my body. It’s my job to entertain the crowd while keeping the show moving along. Making sure the clowns are doing their job (even though I really hate clowns) and wondering if the acrobats are performing as safely as they assure me they are or if they are just showing off. Every once in a while, when a show isn’t going so well, I’m punished. Blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back. Being pushed down the mouth of a cannon which the clowns threaten to light to propel me skyward and land who knows where. (Damn those clowns!) Sometimes, I am a nurse. Betty perhaps? (I think I watch way too many movies!) Taking care of the very sick, figuring out ways to make them feel better and yes, some days it feels like I’m changing bedpans. I’m short and blonde and I only wear the dress style uniform with the little hats that nurses wear in old movies. I wear white sneakers for comfort; the kind that squeak on the floor with every step. I am admired as Nurse Betty because I can usually mend what is broken and I work well under pressure when there is an emergency.
Its crazy busy at work these days and I long for my invisibility cloak. Something I can throw over my head when it gets to be too much and I want to take an hour to just hide and watch and be myself with all the other personalities tucked away in my desk drawer. I should take lunch breaks more often…I think Anastasia is starting to take over!
Friday, October 16, 2009
5 Years of Crazy...
I lovingly refer to the years between the deaths of my parents as the crazy years because they literally were crazy. And not just because we were experiencing all the new eccentricities associated with bipolar disorder. Not even when the kids were babies was my life so incredibly busy. The baby years turned out to be like a vacation compared to this time in my life. We were utterly consumed. Consumed with doctor’s appointments, prescriptions, phone calls, visits to the hospital, making sure that all potential weapons were out of sight and making sure Dad had enough ‘money’ (or cigarettes as most people call them). Consumed with all the stories we were hearing all of a sudden – stories that we thought were true because we had no reason to doubt the source. Stories that we later learned might have started with the teeniest tiniest ounce of truth to them (so tiny that they were nothing really) but were blown so out of proportion by confused delusion. I grew up convinced that my father had never lied to me so why would I even stop to consider that the things he was saying weren’t true. This is where it gets a bit tricky (and why I believe my father was misdiagnosed). It’s not that he was lying to us. He really believed what he was saying. And he was very convincing. Hell, he’d had 30plus years of practice. He was good at it!
I remember walking into his new house (the one he bought after he sold my mother’s house...I hated that new house!) and he was relieved to see me which I thought was a bit weird. Happy sure, excited even to see the kids, but relieved? He confided that he was glad someone else was in the house. That maybe the other voices would stop talking now. Or when my brother went to visit him on one of those 72 hr holds and he noticed there were napkins taped over the light switches because it was the only way our dad could get those darn light switches to stop talking. Imagine our frustration when his psychiatrist asked him about it (because we snitched!!) and he denied the entire thing. Said he was just joking around. This is where treating a mental illness differs from treating a physical one. If I had taken my dad to the emergency room and told them he had pains in his stomach they’d run some tests and check it out. But taking him to the emergency room because he’s hearing voices? What were they going to do if my dad denied it? Nothing. Continue on with current treatment unless my dad gave them a reason to change it.
And so we went on. Doing what we could - hiding cigarettes in pockets so that he could use them to barter for phone time or an extra dessert and tattling to his doctors when necessary. Sometimes hiding ourselves because we just didn’t want to deal with the crazy anymore. Putting our own grief aside to get the one parent we had left healthy again. And living with the regret for the people that were hurt in our attempt at getting back the dad we adored.
I remember walking into his new house (the one he bought after he sold my mother’s house...I hated that new house!) and he was relieved to see me which I thought was a bit weird. Happy sure, excited even to see the kids, but relieved? He confided that he was glad someone else was in the house. That maybe the other voices would stop talking now. Or when my brother went to visit him on one of those 72 hr holds and he noticed there were napkins taped over the light switches because it was the only way our dad could get those darn light switches to stop talking. Imagine our frustration when his psychiatrist asked him about it (because we snitched!!) and he denied the entire thing. Said he was just joking around. This is where treating a mental illness differs from treating a physical one. If I had taken my dad to the emergency room and told them he had pains in his stomach they’d run some tests and check it out. But taking him to the emergency room because he’s hearing voices? What were they going to do if my dad denied it? Nothing. Continue on with current treatment unless my dad gave them a reason to change it.
And so we went on. Doing what we could - hiding cigarettes in pockets so that he could use them to barter for phone time or an extra dessert and tattling to his doctors when necessary. Sometimes hiding ourselves because we just didn’t want to deal with the crazy anymore. Putting our own grief aside to get the one parent we had left healthy again. And living with the regret for the people that were hurt in our attempt at getting back the dad we adored.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Secrets....
When I was a teenager I collected music boxes. I had so many that there wasn’t a surface in my room untouched. I loved the sound of the music and the imagery that each one created. I could just sit there listening, watching and getting lost in the daydream. My dad used to get a kick out of sneaking into my room at 10am on a Saturday morning and turning them on. All of them. All at the same time. He said that I had slept long enough and that it was time to get up. Really though, he just wanted to spend time with me and turning on all my music boxes to wake me up was his way of telling me that I was spending too much time away. Away with my friends, away from my family.
On these mornings we usually ended up having a big breakfast where we all pitched in to make it, where we had great conversation and where we got to re-connect with each other after a hectic week (or month or however long it had been since the last time). We even did the dishes together. Well…all of us except my dad. Somehow putting his dishes on top of the dishwasher was always good enough for him. Sometimes we would curl up on the couch with our pillows and blankets and watch a movie. Usually it was Steel Magnolias and my dad always cried. A lot! Other times we would take the dog for a hike through the Rouge Valley, let her off the leash and just follow. With my dad and my brother always out in front and mom and I trailing behind calling them Wally and the Beav or Pete and Repeat.
I’ve been thinking a lot recently about this secret I’ve mentioned. About whether I really knew my dad as well as I thought I did or if I only saw what he wanted me to see. Could we really have been as close as I thought we were? I think about how this image that my parents created completely unraveled after mom died. Dad’s need to remove every object that reminded him of her; it started with her wedding rings at the funeral and never really ended. The shopping sprees – not just for clothes or things for the house but a car or…well…a house. When he lost his job and that house and we had no idea that these events were actually warning signs of my father’s mental deterioration.
We discovered the secret the first time my father was hospitalized on a 72 hour hold in the psyche ward for suicidal thoughts. A psychiatrist explained to us that our father had something called ‘Severe Bipolar Disorder’ but that was only part of the secret. The other part was that he was originally diagnosed when he was 15 years old. After this veil of secrecy was lifted, we were propelled into a world we weren’t prepared for. We started to have to worry about how a housecoat belt, shoelaces or the cap to a can of shaving cream were potential weapons. A world where bags were always inspected, where security let you in or out and where cigarettes were confiscated and then handed back one by one at designated times. This went on for years – one 72 hour hold after another, a 4 day ICU stay after an actual attempt, and a 60 day stay in a psychiatric facility all in our desperate attempt to get him stabilized as he had been for 30 years.
My mom died keeping his secret, remaining loyal to the end not realizing that this sugarcoated darkness, this world she helped create would come crashing down and that her kids were going to have to pick up the pieces.
On these mornings we usually ended up having a big breakfast where we all pitched in to make it, where we had great conversation and where we got to re-connect with each other after a hectic week (or month or however long it had been since the last time). We even did the dishes together. Well…all of us except my dad. Somehow putting his dishes on top of the dishwasher was always good enough for him. Sometimes we would curl up on the couch with our pillows and blankets and watch a movie. Usually it was Steel Magnolias and my dad always cried. A lot! Other times we would take the dog for a hike through the Rouge Valley, let her off the leash and just follow. With my dad and my brother always out in front and mom and I trailing behind calling them Wally and the Beav or Pete and Repeat.
I’ve been thinking a lot recently about this secret I’ve mentioned. About whether I really knew my dad as well as I thought I did or if I only saw what he wanted me to see. Could we really have been as close as I thought we were? I think about how this image that my parents created completely unraveled after mom died. Dad’s need to remove every object that reminded him of her; it started with her wedding rings at the funeral and never really ended. The shopping sprees – not just for clothes or things for the house but a car or…well…a house. When he lost his job and that house and we had no idea that these events were actually warning signs of my father’s mental deterioration.
We discovered the secret the first time my father was hospitalized on a 72 hour hold in the psyche ward for suicidal thoughts. A psychiatrist explained to us that our father had something called ‘Severe Bipolar Disorder’ but that was only part of the secret. The other part was that he was originally diagnosed when he was 15 years old. After this veil of secrecy was lifted, we were propelled into a world we weren’t prepared for. We started to have to worry about how a housecoat belt, shoelaces or the cap to a can of shaving cream were potential weapons. A world where bags were always inspected, where security let you in or out and where cigarettes were confiscated and then handed back one by one at designated times. This went on for years – one 72 hour hold after another, a 4 day ICU stay after an actual attempt, and a 60 day stay in a psychiatric facility all in our desperate attempt to get him stabilized as he had been for 30 years.
My mom died keeping his secret, remaining loyal to the end not realizing that this sugarcoated darkness, this world she helped create would come crashing down and that her kids were going to have to pick up the pieces.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Trying to keep it real...
So, I was re-reading my posts trying to gather some kind of inspiration around where to go next in my story and it hit me. I’ve painted quite the pretty picture of the perfect mother who got it all right with the short time she had. Well folks, my mother was many things – loyal, loving, honourable, fabulous…I could go on and on – but perfect was certainly not one of them.
My mother was your typical last minute Christmas shopper. She thrived on procrastination and accomplished much of her best work the last few hours before a deadline. She died right before Christmas and the hardest part of that first holiday morning without her came when we realized that for the first time, most of her shopping was done. She was ahead of the game. And it was awful and bittersweet sitting there crying and going through the Christmas morning motions. Opening presents that she had hand-picked for each of us. Opening presents that we had hand-picked for her. And while this probably can’t really be classified as something that makes her less perfect sounding, it sure felt dreadful.
One of my favourites (if you can classify a mother’s mistake as a favourite) was when I was a teenager. There was nothing mom liked better than to come home from work and have a slice of bread with peanut butter on it (sometimes she switched it up and had Cheese Whiz on it but usually it was good ole PB). This simple little slice was like her drug of choice, a pick-me-up that she needed after a hard days work before she had to put on her mom hat again and start supper and boy did she look forward to it. On this particular day, my brother and I decided to have this same treat as a snack after school. So we did. Except…we sort of finished the peanut butter and maybe we put the empty jar back in the cupboard…
Shockingly, this didn’t get a warm reception that day when my mom came home from work. There was lots of yelling, Mike and I started fighting while we denied the entire thing and then it happened. She didn’t just ground us – she kicked us out of the house. For eating the last of the peanut butter. Seriously! I was old enough to understand that she didn’t mean it but stubborn enough to try and make her suffer for it. I marched (or maybe stomped my feet up the stairs) to my room and started packing. I called my best friend and arranged to stay at her house for the night. I was all set. Then I noticed that my brother was sitting on the corner of my bed very close to tears wondering what we were going to do and while I was yelling at him that I was moving out and I didn’t care what he did, I changed my mind. I was the older one. It was my job to take care of him. So I sucked it up, marched back downstairs and asked my mom if we really had to move out. Of course the answer was no and we were all relieved and happy again.
There is one mistake she made that took a very long time to forgive her for. A mistake that we didn’t even realize she had made until about a year after she was gone and one we struggled to cope with for years afterwards.
This mistake was a secret that my mom kept for over 30 years…
My mother was your typical last minute Christmas shopper. She thrived on procrastination and accomplished much of her best work the last few hours before a deadline. She died right before Christmas and the hardest part of that first holiday morning without her came when we realized that for the first time, most of her shopping was done. She was ahead of the game. And it was awful and bittersweet sitting there crying and going through the Christmas morning motions. Opening presents that she had hand-picked for each of us. Opening presents that we had hand-picked for her. And while this probably can’t really be classified as something that makes her less perfect sounding, it sure felt dreadful.
One of my favourites (if you can classify a mother’s mistake as a favourite) was when I was a teenager. There was nothing mom liked better than to come home from work and have a slice of bread with peanut butter on it (sometimes she switched it up and had Cheese Whiz on it but usually it was good ole PB). This simple little slice was like her drug of choice, a pick-me-up that she needed after a hard days work before she had to put on her mom hat again and start supper and boy did she look forward to it. On this particular day, my brother and I decided to have this same treat as a snack after school. So we did. Except…we sort of finished the peanut butter and maybe we put the empty jar back in the cupboard…
Shockingly, this didn’t get a warm reception that day when my mom came home from work. There was lots of yelling, Mike and I started fighting while we denied the entire thing and then it happened. She didn’t just ground us – she kicked us out of the house. For eating the last of the peanut butter. Seriously! I was old enough to understand that she didn’t mean it but stubborn enough to try and make her suffer for it. I marched (or maybe stomped my feet up the stairs) to my room and started packing. I called my best friend and arranged to stay at her house for the night. I was all set. Then I noticed that my brother was sitting on the corner of my bed very close to tears wondering what we were going to do and while I was yelling at him that I was moving out and I didn’t care what he did, I changed my mind. I was the older one. It was my job to take care of him. So I sucked it up, marched back downstairs and asked my mom if we really had to move out. Of course the answer was no and we were all relieved and happy again.
There is one mistake she made that took a very long time to forgive her for. A mistake that we didn’t even realize she had made until about a year after she was gone and one we struggled to cope with for years afterwards.
This mistake was a secret that my mom kept for over 30 years…
Thursday, October 1, 2009
It's good to be the king!
I thought she was crazy and I really wasn’t in the mood to play her game. You know how kids get when they think their parents are embarrassingly lame. I folded my arms across my chest, rolled my eyes and refused to give in. Did she really want me to say ‘Zulu’s’ when she finished her sentence? Seriously? Well, I wasn’t going to. No way Jose! My lips were locked and sealed and I threw away the key. The line has been drawn!
To put it simply, I grew up acting as my mother’s very own personal circus monkey. Riding my unicycle and pounding my cymbals while teetering on a very high tight rope. Sometimes I was a seal performing in a show. Barking, clapping my fins and blowing kisses to the audience. On rare occasions, I was a stage starlet. Clutching my heart and falling to the ground, all spotlights on me and roses and curtain calls galore. I was her entertainment and her boisterous laugh and encouragement were all the reward I would need. Mom loved all things silly – especially when it was coming from children. She loved the look on a five year olds face when she asked them if they were married and she loved teaching kids (not her own of course) that the ‘magic’ words were never please and thank you but ‘RIGHT NOW’! A particular favourite was when my brother, cousins and I would act out scenes from a Mel Brooks movie. It didn’t matter if we were ‘Putting on the Ritz’ or giving Count De Money fashion advice, she loved every second of it. And mixed in with all this silliness were lessons that I was able to see later in life. She taught me how to be entertaining and make people laugh and that I shouldn’t ever take myself too seriously.
Now, this wasn’t so much fun when I was a teenager. In fact, it was downright painful. Or, at least it started out that way because no matter how much I wanted to just lock myself in my room and hide, she was just too much fun. Like when she rearranged the furniture because company was coming and we needed more room for charades. Or when she named our Thanksgiving turkey Tommy and taught him how to fly before he had to be stuffed. We can’t forget our little mouse ‘problem’ when she became so fascinated by one (mostly because he was too smart to be killed) that it became a member of the family and we named him Herbert and he would come out of his hiding hole and watch movies with us at night.
So, in the end I gave in. Like she knew I would. Like I knew I would. I found the key to unlock my lips and I erased the line that had been drawn. But it made her smile and no matter how much of a brooding teenager I wanted to be, I couldn’t deny her…
Mom: “So, I was in Africa playing poker with the natives.”
Katie: With a heavy sigh…“Zulu’s?”
Mom: “Nope. I won!”
To put it simply, I grew up acting as my mother’s very own personal circus monkey. Riding my unicycle and pounding my cymbals while teetering on a very high tight rope. Sometimes I was a seal performing in a show. Barking, clapping my fins and blowing kisses to the audience. On rare occasions, I was a stage starlet. Clutching my heart and falling to the ground, all spotlights on me and roses and curtain calls galore. I was her entertainment and her boisterous laugh and encouragement were all the reward I would need. Mom loved all things silly – especially when it was coming from children. She loved the look on a five year olds face when she asked them if they were married and she loved teaching kids (not her own of course) that the ‘magic’ words were never please and thank you but ‘RIGHT NOW’! A particular favourite was when my brother, cousins and I would act out scenes from a Mel Brooks movie. It didn’t matter if we were ‘Putting on the Ritz’ or giving Count De Money fashion advice, she loved every second of it. And mixed in with all this silliness were lessons that I was able to see later in life. She taught me how to be entertaining and make people laugh and that I shouldn’t ever take myself too seriously.
Now, this wasn’t so much fun when I was a teenager. In fact, it was downright painful. Or, at least it started out that way because no matter how much I wanted to just lock myself in my room and hide, she was just too much fun. Like when she rearranged the furniture because company was coming and we needed more room for charades. Or when she named our Thanksgiving turkey Tommy and taught him how to fly before he had to be stuffed. We can’t forget our little mouse ‘problem’ when she became so fascinated by one (mostly because he was too smart to be killed) that it became a member of the family and we named him Herbert and he would come out of his hiding hole and watch movies with us at night.
So, in the end I gave in. Like she knew I would. Like I knew I would. I found the key to unlock my lips and I erased the line that had been drawn. But it made her smile and no matter how much of a brooding teenager I wanted to be, I couldn’t deny her…
Mom: “So, I was in Africa playing poker with the natives.”
Katie: With a heavy sigh…“Zulu’s?”
Mom: “Nope. I won!”
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Good Grief...
How many stages does a person experience while grieving? It turns out, this question isn’t so easy to answer. Some say there are five stages, some say seven while others say ten or even twelve. These stages are really just a clinical way of bucketing the emotional responses a person experiences after the loss of a loved one and while no one can seem to agree on the number of stages, they can all agree on 5 of them – shock and denial, pain and guilt, anger, depression and acceptance.
Here’s what they don’t tell you – what I learned (am still learning) from my own experience.
I didn’t go through any of these stages separately. In fact more often than not, I experienced all of them. All the time. With one emotion just more dominant than the others. Like when my father handed me my mother’s wedding rings right before the viewing at the funeral home. I was still denying the fact that she was gone. I was still in shock and found myself unbelievably angry at my dad. I was angry that he didn’t want her rings, angry that he was forcing me to take them and angry that he was making me so upset just a few moments before I had to face everyone. I wasn’t prepared for how angry I would be at everything and everyone or how debilitating it was or how long it would last.
The pain. Indescribable. I wasn’t prepared for how much the emotional pain would hurt physically – I started to get migraines and didn’t eat because my stomach hurt too much. I just wanted to burrow deep within myself where no one could touch me. Create a whole new me that smiled all the time and cracked jokes and tried to fool everyone around me so they couldn’t see how much pain I was in. So I did. And it still hurt. And I don’t think I was fooling anyone.
As a mother, I found depression was the hardest. Your children look to you for love, fun and laughter and it was this stage I found the most difficult to hide. I didn’t want to go anywhere. A lot of the time I still don’t and am quite content to stay in the confines of my home surrounded by the three people I love the most. But, that’s not fair to the kids so I forced myself to get off the couch and do things with them. There were days when something as simple as taking the girls to the park took more effort than anything I’ve ever done.
Acceptance is a tough one. It forces you to admit that she’s gone and that life goes on and you accept the reality of what you’ve lost. I struggle with this one as it also assumes that you’ve put all the other emotions behind you and I wonder if that’s even possible. Can I accept that my mother’s gone and still feel angry or depressed about it at the same time? Because I do.
They don’t tell you that each of these stages is necessary and good for you. You need to be in denial at the beginning or you won’t be able to plan the funeral. It’s this haze of shock that consumes you that also enables you to make all the arrangements and decisions (soooo many decisions) that are necessary so quickly afterwards. You need to feel the anger and the pain because you need to feel everything that you’re feeling no matter what it is. No matter how hard it is. And you need to have moments of depression because it means you loved. Deeply.
They don’t tell you that it takes a lot of time and more tears than you can imagine. But, I find comfort in knowing that she was worth every second and worth every tear!
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
I want my mommy!
She used to sweep my bangs across my forehead and put barrettes in my hair to hold it in place. Those plastic barrettes in very girly shapes and colours. Like pink flowers or purple bows. She did this so she could see my face because even through my most awkward freckly phase, she thought I was beautiful. And sometimes at night, she would play with my hair. Not because she liked to but because it was the only thing that would eventually put me to sleep in a bout of insomnia. I miss her laughter. Especially while telling me what crazy thing I did sleep-walking the night before. I think she laughed mostly at my teenagery look of absolute horror once I learned what I had said or done.
When I was 12, my mom and dad were called to the principal’s office because I staged quite a successful walk-out at school. I felt my teacher greatly favoured the boys over the girls and since our class only had about 3 boys in it, a game of baseball became quite difficult when all the girls just sat in the outfield and didn’t budge. At least not until gym was over. I remember how proud I was to have her as my mother when her reaction to the teacher was ‘what if she has a point? Perhaps it’s you that needs to think about what you’ve done!’ Then I think of how horrified I was of having her as my mother the next time we were at McDonald’s and it took 10 minutes and she said (more like yelled) to the manager ‘is this your definition of fast food?’ Although, I was happy again when we walked out with free sundaes!
Once, I made her sit 3 rows behind me in a movie theatre so that she wouldn’t embarrass me and my friends. She didn’t mind – I think it was the years of inflicting guilt that she enjoyed afterward...and it worked...I still feel guilty about it.
Her sigh of relief after my 19 year old self walked into her office at work to tell her I was pregnant and I was keeping it. When she wasn’t disappointed in me but disappointed for me. Trust me...there’s a huge difference! Or when she danced with her newborn granddaughter to Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me over and over again because it was the only thing that would make Sarah settle enough to fall asleep.
The look on her face when we went to the casino and I was asked to show some ID and she ranted about how she was my mother and I was a mother myself with 2 daughters. And the shock when she sarcastically asked the security guard if he needed to see her ID and without missing a beat he replied ‘no, that won’t be necessary m’am’. I can still giggle about that one!
I miss seeing that look a mother gives her daughter. One full of happiness and pride and hope. I would catch it every once in a while when she thought I wasn’t looking and our eyes would meet and I’ve never felt so adored in my entire life.
I’m sick with a cold and it’s kicking my ass. And even though I’m 34, I’m reduced to being a child and just really want my mom!
When I was 12, my mom and dad were called to the principal’s office because I staged quite a successful walk-out at school. I felt my teacher greatly favoured the boys over the girls and since our class only had about 3 boys in it, a game of baseball became quite difficult when all the girls just sat in the outfield and didn’t budge. At least not until gym was over. I remember how proud I was to have her as my mother when her reaction to the teacher was ‘what if she has a point? Perhaps it’s you that needs to think about what you’ve done!’ Then I think of how horrified I was of having her as my mother the next time we were at McDonald’s and it took 10 minutes and she said (more like yelled) to the manager ‘is this your definition of fast food?’ Although, I was happy again when we walked out with free sundaes!
Once, I made her sit 3 rows behind me in a movie theatre so that she wouldn’t embarrass me and my friends. She didn’t mind – I think it was the years of inflicting guilt that she enjoyed afterward...and it worked...I still feel guilty about it.
Her sigh of relief after my 19 year old self walked into her office at work to tell her I was pregnant and I was keeping it. When she wasn’t disappointed in me but disappointed for me. Trust me...there’s a huge difference! Or when she danced with her newborn granddaughter to Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me over and over again because it was the only thing that would make Sarah settle enough to fall asleep.
The look on her face when we went to the casino and I was asked to show some ID and she ranted about how she was my mother and I was a mother myself with 2 daughters. And the shock when she sarcastically asked the security guard if he needed to see her ID and without missing a beat he replied ‘no, that won’t be necessary m’am’. I can still giggle about that one!
I miss seeing that look a mother gives her daughter. One full of happiness and pride and hope. I would catch it every once in a while when she thought I wasn’t looking and our eyes would meet and I’ve never felt so adored in my entire life.
I’m sick with a cold and it’s kicking my ass. And even though I’m 34, I’m reduced to being a child and just really want my mom!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Tom Hanks - Not just for dessert anymore!!
I was going to continue my story but I’ve been distracted (unfortunately, that’s all too easy for me). I was watching Breakfast Television this morning. Dina and Kevin were talking about the Toronto International Film Festival and mentioned that Clive Owen was in town. Then, out of nowhere, I heard a little noise in the background. At first, I thought it was uttered from my very own mouth – sort of an mmmmhmmm sounding sigh – you know the one I’m talking about ladies! But, it didn’t come from me. That dreamy sigh came from someone behind the scenes at BT. What piqued my interest however was when Dina compared that sound to the same sound one would make when a slice of very rich, velvety cheesecake was placed in front of you and it got me thinking. Was it a coincidence? Or can women associate all really good looking men with an equally good dessert?
Naturally, I’ve been contemplating this all day. Thinking about men and dessert led to a very un-productive day for me (if my boss is reading this, I’m making it up! I thought of nothing but work...work, work, work). So, I hit the streets and asked my fellow female foodies (or maybe I just asked women I happened to talk to today...I’ll never tell!) and was shocked to discover I wasn’t alone with this comparison. The women I talked to fell very easily into this subject – like it was always in the back of their minds just itching for someone to bring it up. And it was almost comforting that we could all bond over men and dessert; two of my favourite subjects.
Let’s start with Eric Bana – I immediately think Creme Brulee. The silky, creamy texture with caramelized sugary goodness that lights my fire...um... or that you light on fire (wow...where did that come from?). How about Brad Pitt and Apple Pie? Down home goodness with a sweet, warm center that is your reward for breaking through the hot, buttery crust (damn this is fun!). Then there’s George Clooney. With him, I think about a multi-layered, sweet, sticky, finger-licking piece of yumminess like Baklava! Or Gerard Butler and Chocolate Molten Lava Cake and the hot, volcanic center (oh my...)!
What about Tom Hanks and Pumpkin Loaf . The good ole stand by that isn’t just for dessert. You can have this one for breakfast too. Maybe warmed up with butter melting over it. What if you added a scoop of ice cream over a warm slice and drizzled some caramel over it. Does the good looking man associated with it change? I certainly don’t think so. Tom Hanks is definately one of those men that can have his pumpkin loaf topped with ice cream and caramel every once in a while.
Maybe eating one of these warm, decadent desserts while thinking about equally warm and decadent men is our secret reward for everything that we need to accomplish on any given day. Whatever the reasons for our indulgence - like getting caught up on laundry and housework or meeting that deadline at work or maybe your child is finally potty trained and you never have to look at a diaper again – we deserve it dammit!
We deserve to let our minds wander...like thinking about Orlando Bloom and Strawberry Shortcake...enough said!
Naturally, I’ve been contemplating this all day. Thinking about men and dessert led to a very un-productive day for me (if my boss is reading this, I’m making it up! I thought of nothing but work...work, work, work). So, I hit the streets and asked my fellow female foodies (or maybe I just asked women I happened to talk to today...I’ll never tell!) and was shocked to discover I wasn’t alone with this comparison. The women I talked to fell very easily into this subject – like it was always in the back of their minds just itching for someone to bring it up. And it was almost comforting that we could all bond over men and dessert; two of my favourite subjects.
Let’s start with Eric Bana – I immediately think Creme Brulee. The silky, creamy texture with caramelized sugary goodness that lights my fire...um... or that you light on fire (wow...where did that come from?). How about Brad Pitt and Apple Pie? Down home goodness with a sweet, warm center that is your reward for breaking through the hot, buttery crust (damn this is fun!). Then there’s George Clooney. With him, I think about a multi-layered, sweet, sticky, finger-licking piece of yumminess like Baklava! Or Gerard Butler and Chocolate Molten Lava Cake and the hot, volcanic center (oh my...)!
What about Tom Hanks and Pumpkin Loaf . The good ole stand by that isn’t just for dessert. You can have this one for breakfast too. Maybe warmed up with butter melting over it. What if you added a scoop of ice cream over a warm slice and drizzled some caramel over it. Does the good looking man associated with it change? I certainly don’t think so. Tom Hanks is definately one of those men that can have his pumpkin loaf topped with ice cream and caramel every once in a while.
Maybe eating one of these warm, decadent desserts while thinking about equally warm and decadent men is our secret reward for everything that we need to accomplish on any given day. Whatever the reasons for our indulgence - like getting caught up on laundry and housework or meeting that deadline at work or maybe your child is finally potty trained and you never have to look at a diaper again – we deserve it dammit!
We deserve to let our minds wander...like thinking about Orlando Bloom and Strawberry Shortcake...enough said!
Monday, September 14, 2009
Subtle Reminders...
So, the kids are back to school and after a week we seem to be settling in. Sarah started high school and Isabella started grade 5 and we’re getting used to the new routines that are needed when your kids are going to different schools. But now that things are starting to get comfortable my mind drifts to my mom (and dad…but we haven’t got there in the story yet…stay tuned!) and this new milestone we’ve hit in our lives.
You see, Sarah starting high school was one of those subtle reminders that something is missing. Sarah is meeting new people, making new friends, learning new things and starting out on what some say are the best years of your life. My mom would have been thrilled, over the moon that her little buddy was starting this next phase. And it just makes me think that it’s yet one other thing that we get to miss out on and it makes me sad.
Most days these reminders don’t bother me – I sort of just roll with the punches because if I let them all in, I would be a basketcase. But every once in a while one just gets to you – a little twinge that nags at you and forces you to dwell on it. For example, a couple of months ago I was sitting in a conference room at work. My closest co-worker was giving a presentation to myself, our boss and a few others but her mother was also there (her mother works with us as well). The presentation she was giving was for a global project and it was a big deal…huge…and she was just fantastic. But the hard part was when our boss leaned over to her mother and said, “Aren’t you just so proud of her?” and it hit me like a ton of bricks. Now, don’t get me wrong - my co-worker deserves her mother’s pride. It was just one of those moments that take your breath away when you realize that you’ll never have that again and even after almost seven years, I still felt sorry for myself.
So I picked myself up and got my pulse and breathing back under control and was able to finish my day with no one the wiser. But, I gave in and cried most of the way home (I really need to stop crying so much in the car) because sometimes you need to just give in to your emotions. By the time I picked my husband up though, I had it all tucked up into a neat little ball in the back of my mind to save for a rainy day and everything was all right in my world again.
Then Sarah started high school and with that I remembered I can’t ask my mom how she felt when I started high school (did she worry about the same things I’m worried about? What if she worried about something I haven’t thought of yet?) A reminder that I can’t ask her anything – I’m all alone. Thank goodness for distractions – uniforms to buy, orientations, bus schedules (oh my!) – there doesn’t seem to be enough time to dwell on this one. I guess it will just have to wait for that rainy day!
You see, Sarah starting high school was one of those subtle reminders that something is missing. Sarah is meeting new people, making new friends, learning new things and starting out on what some say are the best years of your life. My mom would have been thrilled, over the moon that her little buddy was starting this next phase. And it just makes me think that it’s yet one other thing that we get to miss out on and it makes me sad.
Most days these reminders don’t bother me – I sort of just roll with the punches because if I let them all in, I would be a basketcase. But every once in a while one just gets to you – a little twinge that nags at you and forces you to dwell on it. For example, a couple of months ago I was sitting in a conference room at work. My closest co-worker was giving a presentation to myself, our boss and a few others but her mother was also there (her mother works with us as well). The presentation she was giving was for a global project and it was a big deal…huge…and she was just fantastic. But the hard part was when our boss leaned over to her mother and said, “Aren’t you just so proud of her?” and it hit me like a ton of bricks. Now, don’t get me wrong - my co-worker deserves her mother’s pride. It was just one of those moments that take your breath away when you realize that you’ll never have that again and even after almost seven years, I still felt sorry for myself.
So I picked myself up and got my pulse and breathing back under control and was able to finish my day with no one the wiser. But, I gave in and cried most of the way home (I really need to stop crying so much in the car) because sometimes you need to just give in to your emotions. By the time I picked my husband up though, I had it all tucked up into a neat little ball in the back of my mind to save for a rainy day and everything was all right in my world again.
Then Sarah started high school and with that I remembered I can’t ask my mom how she felt when I started high school (did she worry about the same things I’m worried about? What if she worried about something I haven’t thought of yet?) A reminder that I can’t ask her anything – I’m all alone. Thank goodness for distractions – uniforms to buy, orientations, bus schedules (oh my!) – there doesn’t seem to be enough time to dwell on this one. I guess it will just have to wait for that rainy day!
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
It's Simsational!
I'm a control freak. There. I said it. Now you all know my secret shame. I don't like spontaneity or plans changing or the kids unloading the dishwasher. Actually, I let them do this one because it's good for them but I stress about it the entire time hoping that they put everything where it's supposed to go (and maybe sometimes I go and re-do it...maybe not...I've said too much already). Perhaps it's this aspect of my personality that is drawn to certain computer games. My current obsession (besides World of Warcraft where I have a very beautiful level 80 Blood Elf Priest that is just as controlling as I am – For The Horde!!) is The Sims 3. There's just something about this game - like how much can be controlled. I can pick and choose what they look like, what personality I want them to have, what career track they will enter, when they eat and what they eat. I can even choose such mundane tasks as when they should go to the bathroom or whether they should have a shower or a bath or whether they should even bathe at all (I know...gross....but oddly interesting when a green gas oozes out of their armpits).
I got this game on the first day it was released and have been lost in the eye candy ever since. The graphics are incredible. And, I've been lost in getting to know my new little minions - the simulated people and families I have complete control over (insert evil laugh here). My first 'minion' was Samantha Jones whom I intended to be just like the Sex & the City character but who ended up being the exact opposite. In the first few hours under my control, Samantha met Sherman. A local boy (aka, came with the game) who is afraid of the dark and has traits like 'lucky' and 'coward'. Then they became best friends, fell in love and got married (Samantha proposed – even got down on one knee with a ring and Sherman jumped up and down with excitement...seriously!). Then there was the new house, new jobs, fertility treatments, pregnancy, raising kids, getting promotions – the fun is endless really. However, my husband wasn't liking it so much. You see, we would spend our evenings playing World of Warcraft together once the kids were in bed and he was feeling quite left out the next night when I didn't want to play WOW with him. In fact, I think my actual words were "Honey, you can't expect me NOT to have my babies tonight!"
So for the purpose of this blog (and to lighten the mood every once in a while), I have created special minions just for you (now you’re all aiding and abetting my madness...more evil laughs here) - meet Henry and Nancy SmallTown. They are a young, married couple with huge lifetime aspirations. They are both family-oriented but Henry wants desperately to be an astronaut while Nancy wants to have at least 5 children that she can watch grow to adulthood. To start off, they have a beautiful house on the beach in a town called Sunset Valley that they can afford due to a very generous inheritance that was left to Nancy when her parents passed away (Ok ok...I cheated and made her rich...happy?). Henry has found a job in the military and Nancy is working as a bedplan cleaner . But, I suspect she’ll be quitting as soon as she discovers the ‘woohooing’ paid off and she’s pregnant. Hopefully with multiples. But should they have girls or boys first? Yes, I can control even that (Muahahahahaha!!).
I got this game on the first day it was released and have been lost in the eye candy ever since. The graphics are incredible. And, I've been lost in getting to know my new little minions - the simulated people and families I have complete control over (insert evil laugh here). My first 'minion' was Samantha Jones whom I intended to be just like the Sex & the City character but who ended up being the exact opposite. In the first few hours under my control, Samantha met Sherman. A local boy (aka, came with the game) who is afraid of the dark and has traits like 'lucky' and 'coward'. Then they became best friends, fell in love and got married (Samantha proposed – even got down on one knee with a ring and Sherman jumped up and down with excitement...seriously!). Then there was the new house, new jobs, fertility treatments, pregnancy, raising kids, getting promotions – the fun is endless really. However, my husband wasn't liking it so much. You see, we would spend our evenings playing World of Warcraft together once the kids were in bed and he was feeling quite left out the next night when I didn't want to play WOW with him. In fact, I think my actual words were "Honey, you can't expect me NOT to have my babies tonight!"
So for the purpose of this blog (and to lighten the mood every once in a while), I have created special minions just for you (now you’re all aiding and abetting my madness...more evil laughs here) - meet Henry and Nancy SmallTown. They are a young, married couple with huge lifetime aspirations. They are both family-oriented but Henry wants desperately to be an astronaut while Nancy wants to have at least 5 children that she can watch grow to adulthood. To start off, they have a beautiful house on the beach in a town called Sunset Valley that they can afford due to a very generous inheritance that was left to Nancy when her parents passed away (Ok ok...I cheated and made her rich...happy?). Henry has found a job in the military and Nancy is working as a bedplan cleaner . But, I suspect she’ll be quitting as soon as she discovers the ‘woohooing’ paid off and she’s pregnant. Hopefully with multiples. But should they have girls or boys first? Yes, I can control even that (Muahahahahaha!!).
Thursday, September 3, 2009
To hug or not to hug...
Hugs, believe it or not, are pretty powerful things. They can bring comfort when you least expect it, they can push your emotions over the edge after working hard to keep control and they are amazingly different from one person to the next. Some people are ‘polite’ huggers – gently laying their hands on the other person’s shoulders, getting the hug over quickly with as little touching as possible. There are the ‘patters’ where patting on the back lasts the duration of the hug. Can’t forget the ‘boob’ huggers that squeeze you as tight as they can right around…well…let’s just say the ‘girls’ get squished. Shockingly, these huggers are usually men. There are awkward hugs that are really uncomfortable and last longer than they should and then there are the serious hugs. These hugs are reserved only for those you really care about, you get as close as possible and just hang on for dear life.
Now, I normally love a good hug – the kind where you just settle in and enjoy. But, there have been moments in my life where a good hug was my emotional un-doing and there is nothing I try to avoid more than crying in public. I’m a crier in general – I cry with every emotion. I’m a big old mushbucket but I only show this side of myself to people I’m really close to. So, I have become really good at putting up hug barriers – I paste a smile on my face, allow myself to be hugged and feel nothing. This was particularly handy after my mom died. Everyone wanted to hug me so the barriers went up with full force almost immediately. There are obviously downsides to guarding your emotions so carefully. The biggest one was that I didn’t make any decisions between the time my mom died and her funeral with my heart – they were all done with my head. Given the circumstances, my head wasn’t thinking all that clearly and my youngest daughter suffered the most as a result.
Bella was 3 yrs old at the time and I made the decision to keep her from the funeral. I had it set in my mind that it wasn’t the place for a child so young. Watching Sarah (7 at the time) crawl onto my fathers lap in the middle of the service so that they could hug each other and cry together while a church full of people watched and cried right along with them only strengthened my decision. I told myself Bella was too young – she wouldn’t understand anyway.
I was so stupid!
It was Bella that cried herself to sleep for months afterwards. It was Bella that needed to talk about her all the time when all I wanted to do was pretend it never happened. It was Bella that needed to hold on to every single memory fearing they would disappear too and it was Bella, the only one of us that didn’t get a chance to say good-bye to the Gram she adored. Cue the hugs and lots of them – the magically healing ones that only a mother can give her child, the ones that make the hurt better, that make you stop crying and that eventually, give you back your smile!
Now, I normally love a good hug – the kind where you just settle in and enjoy. But, there have been moments in my life where a good hug was my emotional un-doing and there is nothing I try to avoid more than crying in public. I’m a crier in general – I cry with every emotion. I’m a big old mushbucket but I only show this side of myself to people I’m really close to. So, I have become really good at putting up hug barriers – I paste a smile on my face, allow myself to be hugged and feel nothing. This was particularly handy after my mom died. Everyone wanted to hug me so the barriers went up with full force almost immediately. There are obviously downsides to guarding your emotions so carefully. The biggest one was that I didn’t make any decisions between the time my mom died and her funeral with my heart – they were all done with my head. Given the circumstances, my head wasn’t thinking all that clearly and my youngest daughter suffered the most as a result.
Bella was 3 yrs old at the time and I made the decision to keep her from the funeral. I had it set in my mind that it wasn’t the place for a child so young. Watching Sarah (7 at the time) crawl onto my fathers lap in the middle of the service so that they could hug each other and cry together while a church full of people watched and cried right along with them only strengthened my decision. I told myself Bella was too young – she wouldn’t understand anyway.
I was so stupid!
It was Bella that cried herself to sleep for months afterwards. It was Bella that needed to talk about her all the time when all I wanted to do was pretend it never happened. It was Bella that needed to hold on to every single memory fearing they would disappear too and it was Bella, the only one of us that didn’t get a chance to say good-bye to the Gram she adored. Cue the hugs and lots of them – the magically healing ones that only a mother can give her child, the ones that make the hurt better, that make you stop crying and that eventually, give you back your smile!
Monday, August 31, 2009
The night my world changed...
It was just past 1:00 am on December 16th, 2002 when the phone rang. I toyed with the idea of not answering it – callers that late at night never have anything good to tell you but curiosity got the better of me and I groggily picked it up. It was horrible news…life changing news. My cousin David was calling to tell me an ambulance had just taken my mother to the hospital, that it was bad and I needed to get there as soon as possible. As I got dressed faster than ever before I relayed the message to my husband and then quickly realized I was going to have to do this by myself – he couldn’t come with me. Our girls were sound asleep and I wasn’t about to wake them. As I left, a snowstorm was just starting and I spent the 20 minute drive giving myself a pep talk. I was going to be calm, I wasn’t going to cry, I needed to be strong, and I needed to be the rock I knew my family would desperately need. I was going to do what needed to be done…no matter what!
Nothing could have prepared me for what I walked into. Doctors were saying things like “cardiac arrest”, “brain dead”, “your father needs to make a decision about life support”. The worst though was when I saw her for the first time. She had a tube down her throat which had engaged her gag reflex, tears were streaming down her face because of the pressure and in that moment I knew. I knew that even though her heart was still beating, my mother was nowhere near it. I knew she was gone. The tears are what convinced me. I’ve seen my mother cry lots of times and there was just something wrong about it this time. It just seemed cold…clinical. I tried talking to her anyway; I even tried yelling just to get some sort of reaction. All I got was nothing…
I don’t remember much after that. I remember doing what I thought I should be doing – telling the doctors they needed to prove she was brain dead before I would encourage my father to do anything, transferring her to a different hospital after one told me there was nothing more they could do. But most of the memories I have are sounds, feelings and flashes of images. I do remember how much I hated that “family” room the hospital staff segregates you in when a situation is particularly bad or that gut wrenching feeling when I heard the “Code Blue” over the loudspeaker and knew immediately it was for my mother. I remember my husband walking into that detestable room just as the doctors were telling my dad that she was gone and the look of absolute helplessness on his face as my father collapsed into his arms. And I remember how peaceful my mom looked after they brought us into her room to say good-bye and how I kept telling myself not to cry over and over again even though I was already sobbing. So much for being the rock…
There is one memory that has haunted me since that night. It occurred later when I was curled up in bed by myself trying to fall asleep (but really just replaying the last few hours over and over again in my head) and I felt it. It was very subtle so much so that for years afterwards I told myself I imagined it, but it felt like my mother was gently squeezing my leg trying to tell me it was alright. I remember sitting up in bed and saying out loud “go be with Dad…he needs you more tonight” and then it was gone…and I fell asleep…and I haven’t felt her since.
But, I still hope. Hope that she’s with us every step of the way. Listening when I’m talking out loud or laughing when one of the kids has done something outrageous. And I desperately hope that I’ll feel her again. Only this time, I think I’ll hold on as long as possible.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I walked into. Doctors were saying things like “cardiac arrest”, “brain dead”, “your father needs to make a decision about life support”. The worst though was when I saw her for the first time. She had a tube down her throat which had engaged her gag reflex, tears were streaming down her face because of the pressure and in that moment I knew. I knew that even though her heart was still beating, my mother was nowhere near it. I knew she was gone. The tears are what convinced me. I’ve seen my mother cry lots of times and there was just something wrong about it this time. It just seemed cold…clinical. I tried talking to her anyway; I even tried yelling just to get some sort of reaction. All I got was nothing…
I don’t remember much after that. I remember doing what I thought I should be doing – telling the doctors they needed to prove she was brain dead before I would encourage my father to do anything, transferring her to a different hospital after one told me there was nothing more they could do. But most of the memories I have are sounds, feelings and flashes of images. I do remember how much I hated that “family” room the hospital staff segregates you in when a situation is particularly bad or that gut wrenching feeling when I heard the “Code Blue” over the loudspeaker and knew immediately it was for my mother. I remember my husband walking into that detestable room just as the doctors were telling my dad that she was gone and the look of absolute helplessness on his face as my father collapsed into his arms. And I remember how peaceful my mom looked after they brought us into her room to say good-bye and how I kept telling myself not to cry over and over again even though I was already sobbing. So much for being the rock…
There is one memory that has haunted me since that night. It occurred later when I was curled up in bed by myself trying to fall asleep (but really just replaying the last few hours over and over again in my head) and I felt it. It was very subtle so much so that for years afterwards I told myself I imagined it, but it felt like my mother was gently squeezing my leg trying to tell me it was alright. I remember sitting up in bed and saying out loud “go be with Dad…he needs you more tonight” and then it was gone…and I fell asleep…and I haven’t felt her since.
But, I still hope. Hope that she’s with us every step of the way. Listening when I’m talking out loud or laughing when one of the kids has done something outrageous. And I desperately hope that I’ll feel her again. Only this time, I think I’ll hold on as long as possible.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Don't Cry and Drive...
You know that scene in the movie 'Airplane' where the woman is freaking out and all the other passengers line up to try and 'slap her out of it'? Now, we've all had moments where we wanted to be in that lineup (with a baseball bat or boxing gloves pounding our fists just waiting for our turn) but what about moments where you were the one that needed the slapping?
A couple of months after my mom died, I had my 'moment'. I was doing my morning commute to work driving through one of the busiest stretches of the 401 when it happened. My chest started to tighten and breathing became quite difficult. I was sobbing and my mind started to drift until I forgot where I was. I didn't even realize that on this incredibly busy highway, I had brought my car to a full and complete stop. In the express lanes. On the 401. Yikes! I can't even really remember what I was thinking about specifically but as my mind wandered around the traffic, I'm sure it was about my mom and all the things that we were going to miss out on.
I don't think I sat there for very long. Incessant honking and flashes of the cars flying by seemed to ‘slap’ me out of it and only when I arrived at work safely, did I appreciate the danger I had put myself in. Driving has never been the same for me since then. It’s no longer the place where I get an hour to myself with my own random thoughts about nothing. And even though my time alone in the car has reduced since then (stop worrying folks – I moved closer to work) almost 7 years later, it’s still the place where I do most of my grieving, often arriving at work with puffy eyes and a blotchy face. Sure signs that I’ve been crying.
Driving isn’t the only thing that has changed either. Relationships have changed – some for the better and some…not so much. I try not to get lost in the monotony of every day life (sleep, kids off to school, work, home, sleep etc...). Instead, I’m just trying to live each moment and not worry about things that aren’t important. Finding time to have fun and to laugh, finding time to remember and reflect and sometimes, finding the time to just be sad.
The most noticeable change is probably how I have evolved as a mother, with only me to rely on, forced to trust my own judgement instead of soliciting my mother’s advice. Juggling my own grief, along with what my girls are going through. Remembering that they lost their grandmother and best friend all rolled into one incredible person. Teaching them that it’s OK to miss her, it’s OK to be sad and most importantly that it’s OK to be happy – they are kids after all.
And, teaching them that there’s nothing wrong with finding enjoyment in little things. Even when it’s just a silly movie that makes them giggle.
A couple of months after my mom died, I had my 'moment'. I was doing my morning commute to work driving through one of the busiest stretches of the 401 when it happened. My chest started to tighten and breathing became quite difficult. I was sobbing and my mind started to drift until I forgot where I was. I didn't even realize that on this incredibly busy highway, I had brought my car to a full and complete stop. In the express lanes. On the 401. Yikes! I can't even really remember what I was thinking about specifically but as my mind wandered around the traffic, I'm sure it was about my mom and all the things that we were going to miss out on.
I don't think I sat there for very long. Incessant honking and flashes of the cars flying by seemed to ‘slap’ me out of it and only when I arrived at work safely, did I appreciate the danger I had put myself in. Driving has never been the same for me since then. It’s no longer the place where I get an hour to myself with my own random thoughts about nothing. And even though my time alone in the car has reduced since then (stop worrying folks – I moved closer to work) almost 7 years later, it’s still the place where I do most of my grieving, often arriving at work with puffy eyes and a blotchy face. Sure signs that I’ve been crying.
Driving isn’t the only thing that has changed either. Relationships have changed – some for the better and some…not so much. I try not to get lost in the monotony of every day life (sleep, kids off to school, work, home, sleep etc...). Instead, I’m just trying to live each moment and not worry about things that aren’t important. Finding time to have fun and to laugh, finding time to remember and reflect and sometimes, finding the time to just be sad.
The most noticeable change is probably how I have evolved as a mother, with only me to rely on, forced to trust my own judgement instead of soliciting my mother’s advice. Juggling my own grief, along with what my girls are going through. Remembering that they lost their grandmother and best friend all rolled into one incredible person. Teaching them that it’s OK to miss her, it’s OK to be sad and most importantly that it’s OK to be happy – they are kids after all.
And, teaching them that there’s nothing wrong with finding enjoyment in little things. Even when it’s just a silly movie that makes them giggle.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)