Thursday, June 14, 2018

Dear Grant,

Dear Grant,

You came home today from your writing class with a funny look on your face. You told me you’d read my blog and that you were surprised I felt so sad. I apologized that you were upset and sent you off to play, but after some thinking I feel like I left some things unsaid. 

Grant, what you’ve seen with my actions and read on my blog isn’t me keeping a secret. It isn’t me being fake or disingenuous. What I’m doing is called
grieving. I know you’ve heard this word before. Grieving is messy and complicated and nobody does it the same way. Sometimes it takes people a long time to feel better after someone dies. Sometimes people don’t grieve at all. This isn’t smart. Don’t do this. It will make you miserable later, sweet boy. Most people grieve like I am. We have moments of feeling really really icky and moments of feeling almost normal. The rest of the time we feel mostly ok and we do the best we can to get thru the really icky times when they come. The tricky thing is we never know what can bring on the icky moments. That’s why sometimes you’ll see me start crying out of nowhere or I’ll be happy one second and sad the next. 

When you grieve it’s important to find something to help you feel better when those icky moments hit. Some people paint or draw. Some people exercise. I write. I get out all the yucky feelings and try to make sense of my jumbled thoughts. This is called processing. When you’re sad or angry your thoughts get jumbled a lot. Sometimes you don’t know what it is that is making you feel bad you just know you do. Processing and writing help me figure it out so I can begin to feel better. Confusion = unhappiness  Clairty = peace Remember this... it can help you even in situations other than grief. 

Grant, something else I want you to know is that I always write the truth. Always. BUT, when I write it’s always at emotional times. It’s when I need to figure things out or I want to get something off my chest. This means that what I write is going to sound very very dramatic. This could be confusing to you (as it was today).  When you read my blog please remember this:  It’s how I felt at that moment, but it’s not how I feel all the time. 

Ganky, you are a writer. You’re a great writer and you have gotten so much better this year! A piece of advice from one author to another: to grow as a writer you’re going to have to read. Reading things that make you think and push you to feel will bring out a new depth in your writing. I’m sorry that my post shocked you, but if you felt something new then maybe it was a good thing. Maybe one day you’ll write an essay about the day you learned how to grieve. 

I love you. 
Mommy

Sunday, June 3, 2018

One Month

You took your last breath one month ago today. I haven’t heard your voice longer than that. Your last words to me were: “I’m really sick, Lissy”.  They were over phone. Daddy holding it to your ear. So proud that you were conscious and alert enough to talk to me.  I could feel the hope radiating off of him through the distance. You were gone less than a week later. 

This month has been an odd mix of beauty and despair. My grief has taken me on a journey back in time. It’s brought up forgotten memories of my childhood. Times full of laughter and innocence. It’s made me grateful for your mothering in a whole new way. It’s brought my relationship with Laurel into a sharper focus. She will reach for my hand and I’ll dissolve into tears. Her sweet voice says she loves me and I choke back sobs. It’s as if I suddenly understand what is at stake. The sacredness of the mother daughter relationship has moved onto a whole new plain having now given birth to a daughter and witnessed the death of my mother. 

Losing you has unearthed a sense of envy that I haven’t experienced before. I find myself watching families. I watch the hugs, the waves, the familiarity- all knowing that it will break my heart a little more. I just have to see it. I have to see what I once had. What my children won’t have. Am I a glutton for punishment or am I peeling off layers of hurt to find my new normal? I don’t know. 

I still reach for the phone to call you. I have so much to say. I find myself keeping a list like I do for my friends when we haven’t seen each other for awhile. “Tell Mama...”  I wonder how much you’ve seen? I had a moment of anxiety when I was getting rid of something of yours. “Is she watching? Am I making her sad that I’m not keeping this?” Then I decided that you and Aunt Pam were probably giggling at my
angst and I shook my fist heavenward. It felt good to share a joke with you, Mama.  I miss laughing with you. We did so much of that. 

Dad brings me loads of your things to sort through every few days. I now have your beloved Franklin Covey planner that you carried for years. The last inserts are from 2013. They are full of reminders you’d given yourself as your memory started leaving you. Your home phone number. Directions to my house from yours (even though it was only 3 minutes away). I also have the planner I made you a few years ago. The Franklin Covey had become too complicated and I made a simple one in hopes it would help you not forget birthdays, Christmas shopping etc. It didn’t help. Your dementia was too advanced by then. It didn’t have one mark from you in it. It broke my heart that my help had come too late. I am finding so much comfort knowing that you are now whole again. You don’t have to have reminders or help. You aren’t embarrassed anymore. You are perfect and healed. 

Mama, I love you more than words. I miss you every single day. Be happy. Be whole.