I Need a Map

The rocking chair creaks as I listen to you complain to the manager about yet another thing he can’t control. I know I need to get up and save the poor man. He’s way too polite to end the conversation when you appear so upset. “Dad! Leave M. alone. He can’t fix the problem if you’re still talking to him.” “ Are you saying I talk too much?” “ Well, are you still talking?!??”  M. smiles sheepishly and sneaks off as you turn to me.  

We’re at lunch when you ask me what I think about the historical homes close to the university. We spend the rest of lunch in conversation about down payments, interest rates, and square footage. I’ve come to call these our “let’s play real estate” talks. Sometimes it’s nice to pretend I still have you. 

“I used to have a pistol in here. Here are the bullets, but no pistol.”  I gasp with delight! You remember! Oh, shit. You remember. 

“Dad, you have to let the home health nurses in when they come by.  They are such nice people and they don’t stay long.” “Well, now they really don’t stay long.”  You frustrate me and make me belly laugh. 

Your reality is different every day. The best we can tell it’s a twisted combination of parts of your past with a bit of the present. To force you to be fully in this moment would be cruel. Your brain just doesn’t allow that anymore. I’m learning that the kindest thing for both of us is for me to somehow find a hint of where you are and join you there. It doesn’t always work, but when it does it’s magical. It’s laughter. It’s friendship. 

Sunday

I know better than to ignore the call.  After all the lost phones I know a strange number could be him.  I flip my phone over and keep brushing my teeth.  After the fourth call I know I have to answer. 

He's frantic because he can't remember where he's parked his car.  Again.  I reassure him that I'll come help.  I'm sick and need to sleep, but I know there's no other choice. Guilt washes over me when I think about how I tried to avoid his call.  

I pull up to the store and cross my fingers that he's remembered to wait where I asked him to. When I see he isn't there I scold myself for not changing out of my pajamas.    

After an excruciating 45 minutes I finally find him sitting in his car. I tap on the glass and motion for him to roll the window down.  He can't figure out how so I walk around to the passenger side and get in.  The tears, apologies, and excuses come spilling out.  I interrupt him to ask him to come live with me. We've been here before so his refusal isn't a surprise.  

I open the door to leave and he reaches for my arm. 

"Can I drive you to your car? I don't like you walking alone in the dark." 

And just like that I see him.  My Daddy.  Forever my protector.   

Again.

I recently read a book called ‘The Body Keeps Score  Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma’. To call it eye opening would be an understatement. One point that stuck with me is that everyone will have differing definitions of trauma. An experience one person sails through may cause someone else excruciating pain (both physically and metaphorically). I would never deny that I took mama’s death extremely hard, but until I read this book I minimalized the affect mama’s slow decline and death had on me. Those experiences changed me. The feelings of helplessness and anxiety were crippling. They were traumatic. 

I am currently experiencing something similar with my father. To protect his privacy I won’t many divulge many details, but the paths my parents were given are similar enough that I’m experiencing many of the same feelings. My reactions are stronger this time because I know what’s coming. I know the pain and struggle involved in this journey. I feel like I’m constantly flinching- eyes closed, body tensed- in anticipation of the unavoidable blow. 

The week before our vacation was horrendous. The severity of my dad’s issues came to light and I was suddenly thrust into a situation I didn’t expect nor knew how to handle. I asked questions and read and reached out. I foolishly left for our trip feeling like I had things under control. We hadn’t even been back a full day when things exploded and the boulder settled right back onto my shoulders. 

Today I hit the wall. All the emotions I’ve been stuffing down came pouring out. I’m absolutely devastated that my dad has to suffer this way. I’m angry that my heart has broken all over again when I’d finally started to feel like myself. I’m resentful. I’m scared. I’m lonely. 

I write to process. It find it helps me see connections and sort out my feelings . I typically leave a writing session with a plan or a feeling of resolution. I don’t have either of those this time. I really wish I could fix this with a list. Check off all the boxes, complete all the tasks and everything would be better. At this point I’d settle for even just a tiny bit easier. 

But I can’t. I just can’t. 

Weighing In

I've always been extremely hard on myself.  I'm a perfectionist and have very high expectations.  If I don't meet my own standards or I break some secret rule I've set then I feel terrible.  Terrible meaning my thoughts start spinning into "Why do I bother? or My mom would be so disappointed. or I'm so glad nobody knows this about me." It's a nasty cycle and I know it. 

I've talked about my anxiety in the past. I've had lots of different triggers over the years- usually tied to my unreasonable expectations.  This time has been no different, but for funsies my anxiety has decided to fixate on a new expectation- my weight. 

After the twins I struggled with losing the weight I'd gained during my hellish pregnancy.  It hung on for so long it began to affect my health and suddenly I was a type 2 diabetic.  Off to the endocrinologist I went.  During my first visit we had a brutal conversation.  Something like "Nice to meet you- you're too fat- choose between this weight loss drug or insulin- have a good day."  I left there resolutely against taking the drug.  It scared me and a part of me felt like it was cheating. I decided to join Weight Watchers since I'd been successful with it in the past. No kidding, I gained 10 pounds using their program.  Suddenly the weight loss drug didn't seem like such a bad thing.  Fast forward two months and I'd lost over 30 pounds using Qysmia.  THIRTY pounds in TWO months. For someone who has to "win" at everything this was amazing.  I began getting lots of praise and attention for my weight loss.  I couldn't go anywhere without someone commenting about it.  I never felt ashamed about my methodology.  I tried doing it with diet and (some) exercise and just couldn't.  Whenever anyone asked how I'd had such quick success I was honest.  I didn't see the point in hiding anything.

Last fall things changed for me.  My blood pressure crept higher and higher. I was having constant headaches and felt awful.  My doctor and I assumed that it was stress from having lost mama. We realized it was due to the Qysmia after I'd made some changes and it didn't resolve.  I was told to quit taking it and warned that my metabolism may slow down. Within a week I'd gained back 5 pounds. Within a month I'd gained another 10. My metabolism didn't slow down it shut down. Here we are 9 months later and I've gained back every bit I'd lost. I've started and stopped several diets and several exercise programs. Just like before the weight isn't budging.  

Along with the weight came shame. I feel like I failed. I feel like I let people down. I dread seeing friends because I don't want them to see my weight gain. I have a hard time looking people in the eye because I'm embarrassed. I hate getting dressed because I don't see the point.  It doesn't matter what I put on I'm still going to be overweight.  There's no hiding fat. 

 Social Media has been taken over by a self love revolution. I've read the blogs and articles about accepting yourself.  I follow plus size influencers in hopes their body positivity will rub off on me. So far it's not working.  I'm still ashamed of my weight, but knowing I shouldn't be forces me to take pictures with the kids. I make myself strip down to my bathing suit and swim in the river.  I keep the dates with friends. Maybe its a fake it 'til you make it thing? I'm not sure.  What I do know is I'm sick of this.  I'm sick of making food deals "If I eat this I'll walk for this long".  I'm sick of seeing pictures of myself and wanting to cry. I'm sick of reading packages and calorie counts.  I'm sick of hearing about things like macros, portion size, and intermittent fasting.  Basically I'm sick to death of thinking about food and my size. 

So I quit.  For this entire summer I'm going to eat what I want and move when I choose to. There will be no weighing- of my food or myself.  I may regret this decision in the fall, but for the good of my mental health I have to change something.  I know I'm worth more than my weight, but until I truly believe it the voice inside me will still say I'm not enough.  

A New Day

I was totally fine until the slide show. Chubby babies fading into smiling kids. Poignant music about choosing to dance  playing over the sound system.  Because we need a reminder that time is flying by. Holy cow, teachers. Why must you do this to us? Just once I’d like to see a slide show set to Vanilla Ice or NKOTB- still reminiscent of time gone by, but instead of sniffling and wiping my eyes I could giggle my way through the pictures. 

After getting control of my tears I started thinking. This is a milestone for me too. Come August, for the first time in over a decade, I will be without littles at home. Where’s my slide show?  Where’s my certificate? I have completed one entire season of parenting. I deserve a cookie reception. 

I frequently get asked what I’m going to do next year. I have no idea and I’m completely ok with that.  It doesn’t make sense to immediately jump in to what I was doing before I had my babies.  I’m not the same person I was then. I have different interests and have found new strengths. The one thing I do know is that I want whatever I do to benefit others. I won’t be happy wasting my days away. 

My plan is to be open and be still. God will show me what’s next. While I’m sad that the baby/little kid season of parenthood is over I’m pretty excited to see what’s next. Maybe when I’ve figured it out I’ll make a slide show. And set it to Eminem. 

One year

This day has been looming for weeks. A black cloud moving towards me from the distance. Just like when waiting for a storm I’ve been frantically preparing. I’m not sure there’s anything that could make it easier. Friday makes one year that you’ve been gone. 

My first instinct was to hide away and cocoon, but that doesn’t honor what you meant to me. I don’t want to focus on how much we’ve lost, but instead remember who you were before the dementia and health crisis. I want to smile through tears (which are unavoidable) and spend the day doing something you loved. I’ve decided that I’m going to fill my time with kids. I’m helping to chaperone a fifth grade activity for G and surprising O’s class with our foster kittens. Your entire adult life revolved around children both as a mother and grandmother and as a teacher. Spending my day in a school feels right. 

Mama, you made such an impact on everyone you met. I’ve been thinking a lot about your legacy and what you’ve passed on.  About how I can live in a way that honors the sacrifices you made. You broke so many cycles and set our family on a path free from what could have been. It matters to me that it be recognized and continued. 

If I had to pick one word to describe you it would be giver. I’ve never met someone who gave so freely. Your time and your attention were never truly yours as they were always focused on someone else. You made people feel like they mattered. You remembered small details like where someone grew up or their kids names. You listened. You taught me that listening is one of the greatest gifts you can give. Nothing compares to hearing and remembering someone’s story. 

You made everything beautiful. You took pride in making your home a place that provided sanctuary and peace. Flowers by the bedside, comfort foods waiting, a porch full of rocking chairs. You taught me that little things matter. Creating a space that shows your heart matters. 

I remember you taking over a classroom mid year. The teacher hadn’t been in good health and the room was a disaster. I came in one afternoon to find you organizing a cabinet. When I asked you why you would bother when it wasn’t your room you replied “I like imagining how this teacher will feel having an organized space waiting. It’s like a fresh start. It doesn’t matter that the mess isn’t mine. What matters is leaving it better than I found it.” You extended this to people as well. You were forever building others up. Sure you had your snarky moments (I learned from the best), but you always made sure people left your company feeling better than when they came. As a new mom this saved me so many times. “You were picked to be his mom”, “I’ve never seen a better mama”, and “you know your babies best” were frequent reminders. I hope I can pass on this peace to Laurel when her time comes. You taught me that joy and kindness are easily passed. Never hesitate if a kind word or deed comes to mind. 

Mama, I pray I can live in a way that makes you proud. You mattered. You are remembered. You are loved. 

I love you big as the sky,

Lissy 

Easter

Easter will make one year since I’ve seen you alive. You were carried in to the party. Your frame so weak and frail you could no longer walk. I took one look at you and it was if someone punched me. I pressed my back against the wall and tried to not collapse or worse cry.

After several minutes I made my way to your side.  I remember hugging you and as you reached for me watching your pants fall to the floor. I scooped them up and tried to cover our embarrassment with a joke about how you were taking your diet a little too far. 

How did this happen?

The rest of the day was a blur. I know a plate was made for you and pictures were taken.  I remember feeling myself spinning between a hurt so deep I couldn’t breathe and a rage so firey I scared myself. 

On the way home I relived the day a thousand times. Why did we all act like your appearance was normal? How did we manage to eat? You were so obviously malnourished. Why weren’t we telling you how much you mattered? That to lose you would be to lose our cornerstone? 

How did this happen?

That day was a turning point for me. Up to that time I had vacillated between polite distance- respecting dad’s need for privacy, deferring to his judgment- and being your advocate (albeit an unsuccessful one). That day I became frantic with the need to save you. I hounded dad to get you to a doctor. I scoured the internet for treatments. I cajoled, yelled, encouraged, fumed. 

Nothing changed except for you. You became even smaller. You retreated into yourself even further. You talked and cried to yourself. You stopped responding with anything close to appropriateness. We lost you for good two weeks later. 

When I look back on that time all I see is my failure.  Instead of fighting I should have been holding. Instead of searching I should have been comforting. I made so many wrong choices. 

I’m sorry, mama. I’m just so so sorry. 

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving was mama’s favorite holiday. Before she got sick she loved hosting the whole family and would spend hours planning the meal and making her shopping lists. She took such pride in setting a beautiful table and in making sure family traditions were upheld. 

Mama’s beloved grandmother loved spiced peaches. She made them from scratch and were a staple at every holiday she hosted. Even after she died mama made sure there was a dish of the peaches at every Thanksgiving table. Hardly anyone ever ate them, but mama didn’t care. They held  space for her grandmother and brought her comfort on a day where her grandmother would be sorely missed. 

This year I’m including spiced peaches on my table in hopes they bring me comfort just as they did mama. A tiny remembrance for the women who came before me. A symbol of my commitment to hold onto the traditions that they valued and established. 

Happy Thanksgiving! 

Needing

It’s been five months since you left. It’s not gotten any easier, it’s just become different. There’s this nagging feeling that something isn’t right. That there’s a piece of me slightly askew and no matter what I do I can’t make it fit back in place. Most of the time I can handle it. I grit my teeth, put my head down, and just deal. But  there are moments I just can’t. I’m in the midst of a time where all I want is you. I still need you. 

One of my sweet boys is struggling. I am particularly protective over this child. He has the same ability I do to plaster a smile on his face and plow through the day. Once he steps off the bus the facade falls and all his insecurities come rushing out. I am working with the school to remedy the situation, but the careful discussion and calculated words spoken at our meetings have left me bruised and lonely. I desperately need to hear the words that I’m making the right choices. That I’m correct in what I’m thinking.  I need your experience as both a teacher and a mother. I still need you. 

I’m fostering a litter of high needs kittens. They are battling a congenital issue that makes it hard for them to keep food down and absorb nutrients. One of them has to be held upright for 20 minutes after every feeding. Despite all my effort and research they still aren’t thriving and I feel like we are constantly teetering on the edge. I so badly want them to make it. I need your rescuers intuition. I still need you. 

The twins must be in the midst of a developmental leap. They aren’t sleeping well and are frustrated by the tiniest things. Rhodes has taken to bursting into tears while clenching his fists and screaming at the top of his voice. Laurel has discovered stomping off and slamming doors. My nerves are frayed and I completely lost my cool yesterday. I feel so inadequate. How do I mother these five little hearts when my own still hasn’t completely recovered?  I need your words of encouragement. I need to hear stories about how I frustrated you at their age. I need to hear that I’m a good mom even if I yell sometimes. I still need you. 

You left us too soon, mama. I wasn’t ready. I’m still not. I still need you. 

Birthday

Today Tana reminded me that my birthday is on Saturday. I had completely forgotten. In the back of my mind I knew it was coming, but only two days away??? It will be my first one without you. 

I’ve been thinking about past birthdays. The ones you made so special... Trips to the circus, brand new digital watches, white cakes with pink flowers. After I lived on my own you and daddy would call early in the morning and sing me awake with a laughter filled version of Happy Birthday. We’d talk about my plans for the day and you’d remind me that I wasn’t really a year older until the time of my birth: 9:30 am. 

After I became a mother I learned how different those birthdays must have been for you. Every one so bittersweet. Spending the day remembering every stage of labor and reliving the sweet relief of finally having your baby in your arms. I learned that those morning calls were as much for you as they were for me. They were your way of reconnecting with the baby girl grown up. 

Last year my birthday was a disaster. A cancelled dinner and a hurried visit tainted the taste of a store bought cake. I scolded myself at the time: “You’re turning 42. You don’t need your mama to celebrate with you.” But I did. And I still do. I’m turning 43 and I need my mama to celebrate with me. 

I wish I could have a do over of last year. I’d throw my arms around you and thank you for the cake. I’d be thankful for the short visit instead of wishing for more. I’d ask you to tell me the story of my birth one more time. We’d laugh about daddy talking cars with the nurse during your contractions. We’d compare labors and reminisce about you being there for Will’s birth. I’d make you take a birthday picture with me ignoring your pleas to put the camera down. We’d light my clown candle -the one you saved from my first birthday and lit every single birthday after that. I’d savor every single second I had with you. 

 I imagine Saturday will be a day full of mixed emotions. Celebrating with my babies but missing you. That seems to be the way of things right now. Being truly happy in the moment, but always having a nagging feeling that a piece of me is missing.  I have my clown candle and I’ll be sure to light it.  It hasn’t missed a birthday yet.  And even though I know wishes are silly, I’ll be thinking of you when I blow it out. 

Help

Yesterday I shared some pictures of how we celebrated the Fourth of July. We had a fun day and it felt really good to smile and laugh with our friends and my dad. Mama was mentioned several times, but I never felt overly sad. It was, for the most part, an easy, happy day. 

There was one portion of our day that I didn’t share in my happy Facebook/Instagram posts. It wasn’t included because I feel like it deserves more attention than what I can give in a social media post. 

Most of my friends know that I foster kittens for the City of Georgetown Animal Shelter. I chose this shelter because I read an article in the Williamson County Sun about their need for fosters. Over the years I’ve realized how lucky I was to have stumbled upon this particular shelter. It’s an amazing place full of people that genuinely love the animals in their care. They work hard to provide their charges with enrichment and stimulation (this is so important in preventing behavior problems and depression). They seek out training opportunities for both their employees and their volunteers. They evaluate each and every animal multiple times and council potential adopters about animals they feel will best fit their home and family. It’s these reasons and so many more that I continue to put so much of my heart into working with this one shelter. 

The animal rescue community is a tight knit group. The people are passionate about their mission and love to talk about their experiences. News of the Williamson County Animal Shelter’s plan to turn a livestock arena into temporary animal housing traveled fast. The county is expanding and remodeling their shelter and in order to speed up construction (thus saving tax payers money) they needed to move ALL of their dogs out of their current spot. At first there was much excitement about the creativity and ingenuity the county was using to save money and fix the problem of where to place their dogs. The Canine Corral seemed to be a quirky solution to a logistical mess. Then the Corral was opened and the tone of the discussions changed. There were rumblings of concern about cleanliness and disease containment, about temperature control, about stress on the animals. Where talk was once positive and enthusiastic it was now disgusted and concerned. 

As we were leaving the Fourth of July festivities we had to pass right by the Corral to get to our car. I decided to take the opportunity to see what all the fuss was about. Surely it couldn’t be as bad as I was hearing. The kids are always up for window shopping for puppies so off we went. 

* The next section contains pictures that I took. There were several signs saying pictures and video aren’t allowed. My concern for the dogs housed there was greater than my need to follow their rule. Please be aware that you may want to scroll past them if you are squeamish. 

The first thing we noticed was the noise. Rhodes immediately covered his ears and commented that it was LOUD. It was more than loud. It was painful. The whirring from huge industrial fans, blaring patriotic music, and the barks and shrieks from the dogs combined to create a hurricane of sound that was both overwhelming and agitating. A shelter employee tried to explain to the kids that they weren’t allowed to put their fingers in the kennels. We had to resort to gestures and charades to finally understand the rule because it was impossible to hear her. It was THAT loud. 

Then there was the smell. A horrid combination of urine, feces, and bleach. A different employee was walking around pouring straight bleach on random spots on the concrete floor. At the time I assumed the spots were urine. As we continued our tour I realized it could have been blood she was treating. I took this picture of one of the places where we found blood splattered on the ground. I never saw what caused the blood. A dog fight? Was someone bit? 

The humidity and heat were stifling.  The bleach fumes and the temperature caused Will start wheezing. This thermometer was attached to one of the kennels. 

There were huge industrial fans placed sporadically among the kennels. They did help get the air moving, but did little to cool things down. 

Most of the dogs looked healthy, but there were several that should have been removed from the adoption floor. This poor pup was obviously sick. There was vomit on his kennel floor and all over his bed. He was pacing between his bed and the door to his kennel in what looked like distress. This should have been noticed and cleaned in the time we were there. It wasn’t. 

We left soon after seeing that dog. The kids were getting upset and I was worried about Will. 

We have all felt the growing pains our community is currently experiencing: traffic is bad, the wait time for a table in our favorite restaurant has increased, lines at the grocery store are awful. These are all minor inconveniences and we deal with them because we know good things are coming (Yay for Zoe’s Kitchen and Jason’s Deli).  While The Williamson County Animal Shelter is noble in its quest to grow with the community, I can’t help but think it’s at the expense of the animals currently in their care.  The treatment of these dogs shouldn’t be considered a growing pain. It isn’t an inconvenience that they can’t breathe due to bleach fumes. They shouldn’t be subjected to noise pollution so intense it made one of my children cry. They aren’t sacrifices to be made for the greater good. 

One way to start improving the conditions for these animals is to get people talking. Our community cares. It is full of compassionate people who I have to believe wouldn’t condone this mistreatment if they knew it was happening. 

Here are several ways you can spread the word:

Call or email The Williamson County Sun.

512 930 4824 Ask them to do a story about The Canine Corral. 

Write a letter to the editor of The Williamson County Sun 

Letters@wilcosun.com

Call Department of State Health Services, PHR7

Phone: 254-778-6744 

Call Williamson County Animal Control 

512 864 8282 

Ask to speak to a supervisor and make a complaint. 

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

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. 

 

Dizzy

Grief is the by far the biggest dichotomy I’ve ever experienced. 

It’s only been two weeks that we’ve been without you, yet it’s already been two weeks. 

I feel raw, exposed, and wounded. Always seeking cover. Happiest when it’s finally dark and I can find asylum under the weight of my blankets. Yet I’m almost offended when my sadness isn’t acknowledged. The cashier chirps “Have a nice day!” and I want to snap at her “My mother is dead. YOU have a nice day”. 

I won’t circle the wagons. I won’t call to my sisters to lean into and cry on. Yet when they come anyway I cling to them as if they are my very breath. Desperate for the light they provide and greedily taking the balm they offer my torn spirit. 

I shun the things that remind me of you. I trim back my rose bushes. I put the photos on the highest shelf. Yet I look for signs everywhere: feathers, cardinals, butterflies.  I dream about you. Frantic plays full of jail cells and chains. I’m being kept from you. How do I get you out?  How much do I owe? I wake up sweaty and sick. 

Oh, Mama. I’m dizzy with the need of wanting you. Yet I’m dizzy with the want of needing to forget. 

Muffins

Today has been a rough day. It was Muffins With Mom at preschool. I’ve been telling  myself I didn’t have to go, but I woke up feeling like I needed to. Laurel and Rhodes have been so excited about it and I really didn’t want to disappoint them. So with a few deep breaths and lots of prayers in we went. 

I took one look at the crowded room and knew I’d made the wrong decision. I could feel the tears welling up as I prayed that I just get through this breakfast.  I moved us towards the buffet line and asked each twin what they’d like like on their plate.

“Muffin? Strawberries? Yogurt?”

Blank stares 

“Laurel. Rhodes. What do you want to eat?”

“Eat?” 

Oh, heavens. I might as well be asking them to MAKE me breakfast. 

I fill a plate and we venture out into the crowd to a table. When we get settled they both refuse food and commence to just stare at me. I’ve never felt awkward around my own children but this really was. I pick at a muffin and chat with a few friends who stop by to offer sweet words of condolences (which brings my anxiety way down) and it’s finally time to take the wonder twins to class. By the way, they have never spoken or eaten this entire time. 

After dropping Rhodes and Laurel off in their class I reach for my phone to call mom. It’s my habit to call her after drop off and I know she’d think the awkward muffin breakfast was funny. She loved twin stories. As I’m pressing the button labeled “mom” it hits me that I won’t ever make this call again. Nobody will ever appreciate my stories like she did. She would ask me to repeat parts just to be sure she had the details right for her retelling to daddy later. 

I let the phone fall back into my purse and finish my drive in silence. Tears are streaming and my stomach aches in a way I’ve recently become refamiliar with. It’s taken me awhile to realize what it was. It’s the same feeling I’d get at camp and when I went away to college.  I’m homesick. 

Mama will always be home. 

Now

The numbness is wearing off and the pain is settling in. I wonder if grief is like surgery. F always tells his patients day three is the worst. 

I find myself at times gasping for a breath I didn’t know I was holding. The tears begin and my chest contracts with an ache I’ve never felt before. Sort of like a charlie horse in my broken heart. It surprises me  mirroring the middle of the night leg cramps I used to get growing up. “Eat bananas” you’d tell me. If only you could give me advice on how to get through this. 

Sleep and Hunger evade me. I force myself to eat but everything tastes like I’ve burnt my tongue. Grief even has a flavor. I try to sleep. I get into bed and stare at the celing. I can hear the cat purring above my head and feel the cool air from the fan. My mind wanders to what the calendar holds tomorrow and I realize it’s the day you will be cremated. I have a fleeting thought that it’s good you won’t be cold anymore. That you hate to be cold. 

I can tell that the kids are starting to wear thin of my tears. Laurel sighs when she catches me crying. I refuse to hide my grief  from them.  You are worth grieving for. Your death has left a space in my heart. In my daily life.  I want your grandchildren to see what mourning looks like. What filling that space with peace and tears and gratitude looks like. They need to learn how to pay tribute in the small corners of the every day. How to honor a family member who sacrificed and suffered. 

Oh, Mama how I miss you. I see you everywhere. In Laurel’s long thin hands. In my climbing roses. In my hot tea in the mornings. I know these small things will bring me comfort in time, but for now they are the salt in my very new raw wound.

I know you are finally whole and complete and it is my turn to ache and be broken. 

Tidbits

I never knew death was catered until today. After you were gone I heard the nurse tell her trainee “after a patient dies we always call the cafeteria...” I remember being surprised that canceling lunch was their first priority (especially since you were being tube fed). Sometime later I find a cart next to your door. It’s apples, carefully arranged napkins, and tiny creamers on ice look out of place. The chocolate chip cookies are especially jarring. Were we supposed to eat this? Offer it to the funeral home picking you up? Was it a consolation prize for the doctors - better luck next time infectious disease team... have a tangerine? 

The last breath you took looked as if you were getting ready to say something really important. I will always wonder what it was. 

Telling Daddy you were gone will haunt me forever. 

Memories I’d suppressed to guard my heart against the dementia came flooding back: white birthday cakes with pink touch-me-nots; sunburnt shoulders and sandy toes eating sweetened condensed milk out of the can; fresh flowers by my bed every time I came home; planting flowers in the rain  

Mama, who will call me Lissy now? 

Ambassador

To my friend.  You know who you are. 

In life we are all asked to be ambassadors.  Sometimes we choose our cause based on our passions and interests (like my obsession love for fostering kittens) and other times our cause chooses us.  

I always say that I cried for three days when I found out I was pregnant with the twins. This isn't a joke. I literally cried for three days. I started when I saw two perfectly round sacs on the ultrasound screen and I didn't stop until I heard a calm voice in my head say "For I know that plans I have for you..." In case you aren’t familiar that's the beginning of Jeremiah 29:11, a verse that I have relied on more than once in my life for comfort and peace.  I'm convinced that voice was God speaking to me. From then on I accepted that I was now a mom of FIVE and I had two babies coming. As soon as my bump became visible I'd Unknowingly and Unwittingly become a spokesperson for both multiples and large families. Unwanted questions, stares, judgements, and advice are still a part of my daily life. For an introvert this can cause a lot of stress and I'll admit that during my pregnancy and the twins’ infancy I spent a lot of energy figuring out how to avoid the unavoidable. The twins are now four (!) and I've settled into this role. I enjoy comparing notes with other moms of large families and LOVE talking to new moms of multiples.  I might not have chosen this cause, but it's one I've embraced and now enjoy.  

I vividly remember the way the feeling in the room changed when she first brought it up.  Her normally confident- always on the verge of laughter- voice became timid and soft.  I swear I felt a draft. 

"X brought up killing himself last night"

I had no words. Her precious son.  The one who loves my twins and will play with them unasked.  The boy who makes me throw my head back with laughter.  The sweet soul who can "read a room" and intuitively knows when someone is upset or stressed. No. Just No. We talk and text for days.  She and her husband come up with a plan and work hard to get X the help he needs.  They put aside their own fears and ask the hard questions. There are ups and downs, but throughout My Friend remains steady. She is the touchstone X needs.  

Then one afternoon My Friend takes X to the dr.  The nurse is new and isn't aware of X's struggles. She asks for a list of X's medications. When THE ONE is mentioned there is a great pause of judgement.  Eyebrows are raised. Throats are cleared. Awkwardness is felt by all. But my friend, now the ambassador for youth mental health, didn't let the nurse shame her or X. She realizes that she too would have felt concern or even confusion by this a few years ago.  She resists the urge to smack the nurse, and instead shows her usual grace. My Friend repeats the list of medications while hugging her sweet X.  Peace was restored in small exam room. 

Friend, I am so very proud of you.  I know you didn't ask for this role. Nobody would- it is one filled with fear, anxiety, and sadness. You have accepted it with a grace and peace that most would be incapable of. You have used God as your compass and prayer as your balm.  It amazes me how your family continues to thrive and move forward despite this tremendous struggle. This is because of you, sweet friend.  Please know that I am always here and I love you. 

No More

I peek into the preschool classroom to see Laurel sitting in the tiniest of chairs eating lunch with her friends.  She laughs so hard the yogurt that was balanced on her spoon tips onto her special Valentine dress.  Her face momentarily falls, but she quickly wipes it off and goes back to laughing.  Rhodes is already on his nap mat. I can see his beloved dinosaur printed rubber boots barely peeking out from his blanket.  

Love.

I walk into the happiest of first grade classrooms. It is full of laughter and smells faintly of sugar from the treats waiting on the table. I find Oliver perched on the edge of his chair. His sweaty hand clutching conversation hearts and marshmallows just waiting to yell "bingo". He manages to give me a half hearted wave as he covers one of the pictures on his card. His smile is contagious and I find myself grinning as I back out of the room.

Love.

The ice cream is a soupy mess.  It squishes up over the top of the carton as I attempt to scoop it into the bowl of the waiting fourth grader. We explode into laughter and I apologize for the giant mess I've made of his sundae. Grant is waiting behind him and true to his snarky nature comments that his mom is a "mess like that ice cream". All three of us giggle and I threaten to withhold the messy ice cream. 

Love.

I watch Will slowly walk to the house after getting off the bus.  His backpack is slung over one shoulder and his gate is more teen than kid.  I remember when he was in kindergarten and every day he'd shout "See ya' next year!" to his bus driver.  When he reaches me I tousle his hair and comment that this is the first year he didn't have a Valentine party. He hugs me and asks if I was sad about this.  I admit that I was. 

Love.

I'm on the phone with my Valentine when he suddenly stops talking midsentence. 

"What?" I ask. 

"There's been another school shooting.  Two are confirmed dead."

"No! no.  Children are dead?"

"I don't know.  That's all the alert said. I'm going to go."

My heart is racing.  My stomach has clenched.  I feel sick.

Evil.

I'm doing homework with Will when my phone rings.  My mom has been watching the news coverage and a young man that looks like Will was shown.  She is crying and confused.  She needs confirmation that he is safe.  I'm on the phone for over an hour.

Evil.

Oliver asks me why I don't have the morning news on.  I tell him I just want quiet this morning.  In reality I don't want to have another conversation about why people want to hurt others. I don't want to promise them that their schools are completely safe. I don't want to have another conversation about what to do if they hear shots at their schools.  I don't want to remind Grant that he is to find Oliver and then he is to use his phone to text me that he is safe. I don't want to remind Will that he is to take care of himself and to text me when he is safe. I don't want to remind them to turn off their ringers.  I just don't.

Evil.

Two of my biggest blessings are getting out of the car at school.  I want to pull them back into the car and speed away. I want to keep them with me. I can't guarantee that they are safe, yet I'm leaving them. I'm fighting back tears as I'm driving away. 

Evil.

I remember that I have these feelings after every shooting and that they will fade.  I realize that is 100% completely fucked up. 

Evil.

I'm obsessing about 17 mothers today.  Mamas that lost their babies.  Mamas that anxiously waited to hear the news. Praying that it was someone else's heart that was gone.  Mamas that will never ever be whole again.  

Evil.

When does this stop? When will we take mental health seriously? When will we stop letting Evil steal our babies?  

Dear Mom

Today I threw out the amaryllis bulb I've been nurturing and watching all season.  I suppose I could have done like in years past and added it to one of my beds, but it just seemed wrong to keep watching it grow and bloom while I watch you wither away.  I debated to even purchase one this year as we'd always forced the blooms together.  A winter competition of sorts.  We'd measure the progress and call one another "Mine grew 3 inches this week." "I added more sun, but cut back on water and now I have a bud on mine!" Somehow no matter what I did yours always ended up taller and always bloomed first.

I missed our conversations this year.  You hardly answer my calls now.  Sometimes you can't find the phone and sometimes you just don't feel like navigating through the fog of a social exchange.  I get it.  Our conversations get stuck in a loop. Always starting and ending in the same place.  I know the kind thing is to continue the game, but sometimes I don't want to play ring around rosy .  Sometimes I want to scream "I already told you that!" or "Why can't you remember?" Sometimes I just want my mom.

It's an odd thing to miss someone who's not physically gone.  To grieve for someone over and over.  To have the curtain of hope lifted and lowered without rhyme or reason. You learn to cling to the glimpses you are given. You pray for days full of grace and peace instead of anxiety and agitated confusion. You learn to ignore a sharpness that wasn't there before. You figure out how to explain to your children that sometimes adults say things they don't mean to people they love beyond reason.

I would give anything if I could fill in the missing pieces for you - to make things make sense again.   To watch Daddy care for you both inspires me and breaks my heart. I've said time and again that he is the epitome of in sickness and in health.  He is loyal and devoted and tender.  There have been times I've felt like there wasn't room for me here.  That you and Daddy have boarded up the windows and locked the doors- determined to keep me out.  But it wasn't WHO you were keeping OUT, was it? It was WHAT you were keeping IN.  No more names forgotten, no more dates confused, no more memories lost.  I love you and I understand.