Visiting the Dead

A short while back I got a job in a coffee shop called Wake the Dead working for a good friend and with a group of creative and interesting people.  My co-workers are fun and our customers, for the most part, considerate and friendly.   All in all, being at work is a mix of fun customer service, learning the craft of good coffee (harder than it sounds), and a list of tasks to fill the rest of the time.  There is no "down time," only sweet distraction.

It is difficult for me to be alone, for up through the stillness creeps my grief.  It's always waiting in the wings, like a migraine or an understudy, eager to be allowed to make it's appearance- to have my full attention.  I know that this time and space for my grief is also necessary, and I sometimes crave it.  (Grief itself has a rank sweetness that some of us would drink like wine until we are laughing and crying, before we are finally able to fall into a dreamless sleep of exhaustion.)

Weekend mornings I get to work at 5:30am, and am alone in the quiet for not quite an hour.  At first it was very hard to figure out how to deal with all the sobbing and flashbacks at the beginning of my work day.  There was not enough coffee brewing and arranging of newspapers in the world that could take her off my mind, so I put on a favorite album of hers.  I still cried a lot, but it was nice too, in it's way.  The next day I put on the same album.  I cried some more, but I sang too, and loud.

The following weekend, after thinking about how much Mom would have loved that I worked in this shop, and the thousands of cups of coffee we must have enjoyed during our time together, I poured two cups of coffee.  I made hers extra sweet and creamy, and mine the way I like it.  She was visiting me at work.  I thought about putting on that same album, but I could almost hear her complain bitterly how she was tired of it.  (She was never fond of being overly sentimental.)  Instead, I silently talked to her about everything that had been going on; what it's like at my new job, how we are planning a trip for the fall, and how much I miss her but am trying so hard.  When we were done I said goodbye and washed her cup, but it's sort of our thing now.  Now I like to open the shop in the wee hours of the morning having coffee with my mom.  I put on some music I think she might like.  At the expense of sounding crazy, except that I can't hug and kiss her, it's like she's there with me.

There is some strange magic in love that is made of eternity.  I don't know how else to explain it or even what I mean.  Words, as usual, are insufficient in matters such as these.
When I am in the garden, I remember my mom's spirit and how we are all a part of everything.
I write in a special journal if I want to send her a letter,
and now we have coffee every weekend.


P.S.   This is my grief at 9 months and 20 days

The thing that matters persists.

     I was laid off one month ago, so I have had the luxury of the thing called "spare time".  Now that I have finally gotten over being sick, caught up on my sleep and my reading, cleaned the house and took care of my important errands (whew!) things in my brain have finally started to SLOW DOWN.
     I've been reading about the yoga paths, Buddhism and women's magic.  I went to a service at my old church and said the Lord's prayer.  I started meditating.  I "sat with my grief," contemplated Maya and called upon Gaia.  I started going for walks again, each lap a meditation, each step a mantra.  I picked up my guitar yesterday for the first time in awhile; I took it to the park and played my heart and emotion out into the universe on it, tears like boulders rolling down my face.  I have begun trying to learn whatever precious lessons life must be holding for me after such a year.  I know they are there.  They have begun peeking at me around corners in my mind and unlocking hidden doors for me.  I am getting glimpses of truth through the darkness.
     Mom is here with me through all of this.  She helped me flush out a good idea yesterday while I walked.  It doesn't matter if it was illusion of attachment or her ghost or an angel or that I know what she would say because I was lucky enough to talk to her a LOT.  The Thing That Matters persists because I can still feel what it is to love someone that much and have them love me back.  I still feel her love, and when I call her she seems to be there.  Souls or not, love is eternal.

Christmas Blues

I love Christmas.  This time of year has always been strange, mystical, serene and crazy all at once, but in all my memory I think this is my first "sad Christmas".  Sure, nostalgia has kicked in lots of years as I remembered past times, friends gone and magic lost, but this is different. 
Too much is different this year.  My family won't or can't get together for various reasons.  There will not be a big family Christmas.  I'll get to see some of my family, as long as I travel to them, and the others (that I speak to) I'm sending cards that will probably not get there in time. 
This is our first Christmas without Mom.  It's impossible not to miss her, and the closer it gets to...




and that's where this entry ends.  I must have broken down and called it a day, but I will publish it now anyways.  (9/5/16)

11/4/15

This week has been a roller coaster.  For weeks I cried every morning because I missed Mom so much and the pain was just intolerable.  I don't cry every day now, more like 2/3 of them, but lately it is at night when I am trying to fall asleep that I start to remember all of the hard and scary moments of the last year.  They run through my mind and I can hear all the times she screamed in fear or cried the regretful tears of a person who thought they would have more time.  During the day it is easier to go on about my business, not stop and think about anything but work or tv or some dumb conversation. 
When Mom was just sick but not dying or gone, I was still a good listener for my friends.  They would call me to talk about their problems, and sometimes feel bad that they were unloading on someone that was obviously going through some stuff.  It was a distraction for me, so I didn't mind focusing on somebody else's stuff.  Now, however, I find I have very little compassion for most people's problems, unless they are as tragic as mine.  I know that sounds terrible, and I really just am not used to feeling this way.  I am mad that people don't know how I am feeling, but it's only because I don't tell them. 
I packed up all of Mom's clothes yesterday.  I made no plans to get rid of them or anything, just put them in some plastic bins.  I came across her dentures again and wondered for the hundredth time what to do with them, knowing full well that I will probably keep them forever.  I got together the last of the baby wipes and the monitor to give to my brother with the new baby. 

A little poem on grief

It has been awhile since I did any writing.  I have been avoiding it, the same way I have been avoiding answering the phone or taking care of errands outside the house; like I avoid thinking about the past or the future.
I wrote a check at the grocery store yesterday, and instead of just getting the year wrong (first week of January- it happens), I had posted it 9-3-2015.  September?  How did I get that so wrong?  Then it hit me; that was the day Mom died.  Part of me is still right there, frozen in that moment four months ago, telling her she can be free and hoping I am right.


You died and I became a ghost
A phantom of my former self
I wandered drowning through a flood of memories
A hailstorm of images pounded me to dust
Every song a deafening blow
Every breeze a whisper strained to hear
I was the deer in headlights
the rabbit gone tharn
No one could speak to me
I disappeared
and cannot tell if I have been
or ever will be
found.

Ups and downs and being a new auntie

    I started to write about the morning my mom died, but I just can't.  Instead I want to note that the first day I really felt like the world was a lovely place again was the day I got to see my new nephew.
    He was born October 14th and Furly and I went to visit him the next day.  His name is Cade Merritt Sullivan, and he is a perfect little fuzzy bean.  When he cries, his mom says, "I know, it's hard to be a human," and I think, "Don't we know it sister?"  Her own mother passed away the same day Cade was born, just a couple hours later. I can't imagine what the combination of those two experiences feel like.  The little one is grandmotherless and all his family grieving, and yet our hearts are lifted in his presence.
    What is it about a baby that brings us so much hope, even with the knowledge of inevitable grief and pain and death that comes with life?  Is it the unwritten story we can imagine and hope to watch unfold?  Is it reaching into the past to find our own stories written in their faces?  Maybe they just smell good and feel good; a device of natural selection so we don't just leave them in the woods. 
    I am so happy for my brother and his wife, and a tiny bit envious.  Don't get me wrong; I don't want my own children, but my brother and his wife have a family now that they can focus on.  All of my brothers have families.  We have mom's dog and four cats.  I am so lost right now without my mom to care for.
    So we do little projects.  We painted the front room and we're going to make it our bedroom.  I planted a few things in the yard.  We watch TV.  We eat.  We drink.  I try to get up every day and say, "What do you want to do today?"  For so long we didn't get to choose what we would do, it seemed novel at first.  Day by day it becomes more burdensome.
What do I want to do today?  Nothing. 

TO DO LIST:
Read
Write
Cry
Call about cat spay
Call Mom's CPA
Walk the dog

Grief at 27 days: cry cry cry

It has been almost four weeks since my mom passed away.  I have cried every day for six weeks, usually in the morning, but not always.

It's okay though.  Sometimes I am crying because I am mad: it seems so unfair that she had to die.  Some days I cry because I remember a time when I could have taken better care of her.  Mostly I cry because I miss her so much and I know I will never see her again.

I talk to her though, and when I do it's as though I can hear her in my mind, telling me exactly what I know she would tell me.  This should make me feel better, but instead I just cry harder.

This grief is like nothing I have ever experienced.  I feel like the shoreline, slowly being stripped away and changed with each passing wave.  Every day is a flood of memories, both good and bad, full of useless "what ifs" and "whys."   My mind is a train and I can only sometimes switch the tracks, and then I can go to work or talk to another person.  At home alone, I have no respite.  I wash the dishes, fold the clothes, sweep the floor and all the while my mind is barreling down the track.

So my husband and I try to go to the river every day, we snuggle with our little kitties and take walks and in general try to be kind to ourselves.  We let ourselves cry and we give ourselves time, but we pick ourselves back up and try to move on.  I think Mom would be proud of us and how we are handling ourselves even if every day I cry and say "I love you, Mom," and I don't know if that will ever stop.