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)
Monday, January 4, 2016
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.
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.
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.
Monday, October 26, 2015
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
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
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
She's been gone 6 days and I am hurting.
She's gone she's gone she's gone.
My head hurts and I can't sleep and all I do is sleep but mostly eat and drink and
one moment
I am being pulled in a hundred directions
people needing something needing comfort needing assurance needing decisions and also a shoulder and I am supposed to be the shoulder and shoulder the burden but I think I need something
and the next moment
I am alone.
And I miss her.
And I had to hold her dead and cold body while the overnight nurse yanked off her last soiled diaper.
And my husband helped the man place her on the cart, cover her, and strap her in
(Bring out yer dead)
And I wouldn't complain- no I'm not complaining- because there were many blessings
And I'll have memories to last a lifetime...
But I wish I could hug her
or sit and drink coffee with her and talk like in the old days.
She would tell me I put myself under too much pressure.
She would tell me to try to have a little fun.
She would not be sick, but the fierce and tenacious woman who raised me.
If I close my eyes, I am almost there.
My head hurts and I can't sleep and all I do is sleep but mostly eat and drink and
one moment
I am being pulled in a hundred directions
people needing something needing comfort needing assurance needing decisions and also a shoulder and I am supposed to be the shoulder and shoulder the burden but I think I need something
and the next moment
I am alone.
And I miss her.
And I had to hold her dead and cold body while the overnight nurse yanked off her last soiled diaper.
And my husband helped the man place her on the cart, cover her, and strap her in
(Bring out yer dead)
And I wouldn't complain- no I'm not complaining- because there were many blessings
And I'll have memories to last a lifetime...
But I wish I could hug her
or sit and drink coffee with her and talk like in the old days.
She would tell me I put myself under too much pressure.
She would tell me to try to have a little fun.
She would not be sick, but the fierce and tenacious woman who raised me.
If I close my eyes, I am almost there.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
A bit about our hospice team and an emotional day.
Yesterday was a weird day. Mom woke up feeling good, which is terrific. She also ate three separate times, albeit only a few bites each time. She even got a massage from Velinda, the hospice masseuse; she often declines if her mood is no good, so it was another good sign. She was awake for a full nine hours in row too; on the other hand, she slept the next fifteen in a row too.
Anne, the nurse, pulled me aside and told me Mom seemed weak. I cried a bit about how this was actually a "good day" compared to the weekend. I did not say that I had cried all weekend. Anne asked me if Mom and I have talked about the "end of life stuff." We did, months ago, but haven't in awhile. I also confessed I have no idea how to talk to my family about what's going on. Anne gave me a number to price cremation and said Murray, the slightly goofy and unsettling, "bereavement counselor" will give me a call, (if Anne remembers to tell him). She has the worst memory, but Mom loves her dearly.
Mom named one of her kittens Annie, and says it is after Nurse Anne. Anne loves Mom too. She went to Disneyland on vacation, and brought Mom home some Minnie Mouse ears. For three weeks, Mom wore her ears every time Anne came around. Margarita, another health aide, loves Mom too. Twice now, I have seen her start to cry when Mom was declining. She turns away so Mom cannot see her, but I do. She has come to see us twice a week for five months now, and she is truly incredible. She can change all of Mom's sheets and clothes in the blink of an eye. More than once Mom has said, "Don't you need to change the sheets, Margarita?" only to be told it had already been done. Roxanne, or "Roxy" as Mom calls her, has only been coming for a few weeks, but you can tell Margarita likes working with her, so we immediately liked and trusted her. She is supposed to be helping Mom get in her wheelchair, but after the first week and a half, Mom hasn't wanted to do that any more. (She went for three wheelchair rides before it got too hard for her.)
When Mom admitted she didn't want to get in her chair again, she got very upset and started to cry. She said she felt like she had "failed" us. It was very sad, and of course we all assured her she had not failed us; that all we want is for her to be happy. It was very emotional for all of us.
I am trying not to freak out, but I am super sad and anxious and my brain goes a mile a minute. I am supposed to go away for four days this weekend, and though I'm sure she'll still be here when I come home, I feel guilty for not spending every waking minute with her, because "the end" seems to be looming. She is encouraging me to go, but I can tell she is a little scared for me to be gone too.
Well, I could keep going, but I have worn myself out, and probably whoever is reading too.
LIFE IS PRECIOUS- EVERY MOMENT OF IT- BUT ESPECIALLY
THE MOMENTS FILLED WITH LOVE.
Anne, the nurse, pulled me aside and told me Mom seemed weak. I cried a bit about how this was actually a "good day" compared to the weekend. I did not say that I had cried all weekend. Anne asked me if Mom and I have talked about the "end of life stuff." We did, months ago, but haven't in awhile. I also confessed I have no idea how to talk to my family about what's going on. Anne gave me a number to price cremation and said Murray, the slightly goofy and unsettling, "bereavement counselor" will give me a call, (if Anne remembers to tell him). She has the worst memory, but Mom loves her dearly.
Mom named one of her kittens Annie, and says it is after Nurse Anne. Anne loves Mom too. She went to Disneyland on vacation, and brought Mom home some Minnie Mouse ears. For three weeks, Mom wore her ears every time Anne came around. Margarita, another health aide, loves Mom too. Twice now, I have seen her start to cry when Mom was declining. She turns away so Mom cannot see her, but I do. She has come to see us twice a week for five months now, and she is truly incredible. She can change all of Mom's sheets and clothes in the blink of an eye. More than once Mom has said, "Don't you need to change the sheets, Margarita?" only to be told it had already been done. Roxanne, or "Roxy" as Mom calls her, has only been coming for a few weeks, but you can tell Margarita likes working with her, so we immediately liked and trusted her. She is supposed to be helping Mom get in her wheelchair, but after the first week and a half, Mom hasn't wanted to do that any more. (She went for three wheelchair rides before it got too hard for her.)
When Mom admitted she didn't want to get in her chair again, she got very upset and started to cry. She said she felt like she had "failed" us. It was very sad, and of course we all assured her she had not failed us; that all we want is for her to be happy. It was very emotional for all of us.
I am trying not to freak out, but I am super sad and anxious and my brain goes a mile a minute. I am supposed to go away for four days this weekend, and though I'm sure she'll still be here when I come home, I feel guilty for not spending every waking minute with her, because "the end" seems to be looming. She is encouraging me to go, but I can tell she is a little scared for me to be gone too.
Well, I could keep going, but I have worn myself out, and probably whoever is reading too.
LIFE IS PRECIOUS- EVERY MOMENT OF IT- BUT ESPECIALLY
THE MOMENTS FILLED WITH LOVE.
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