13 Years Left

I never forget what day she died.

October 6th.


But sometimes I forget what year she died.

Sometimes I think I want to.
Sometimes I'm so ashamed that I did.

Sometimes I'm still a little bit angry.
Sometimes I can't believe I have the nerve to feel that way.

There's always a little bit of empty hanging around in the back of my head...

...and my heart.




I do the math in my head...

2019-2007=12

My mother died in 2007, 12 years ago. She was 63 and it really was much too soon.
If I live as long as she did, I would only have 13 years left to live.

This is appalling and terrifying.

One of the good times.

But of course, I've had the cancer. So I think about this more, probably, than the average person. I count time every single day: time since the cancer, time until my risk of recurrence drops, time until my next checkup. If I've properly learned all of my cancer lessons,  I should automatically embrace every day like the gift that it is. I should wave my pink ribbon and appreciate every last little blessing I encounter. And I must admit, there was a time not very long ago that I would have done anything...   .almost     anything   .... to know I was lucky enough to have 13 more years of life to live.

Mama would have been 75 this year and she has missed so much. I still yell out to her by the nickname my father gave her, "Hey Fee! How about that!"  "Oh Fee, can you believe that?"  I bug her with random musings.  I share the gossip. I pass on my worries. But mostly I tell her all of the good stuff because at the end of the day, life offers mostly good stuff to be grateful for.

I try really hard to appreciate the cancer lesson society thinks I should have learned.  Most of the time I do truly understand the value of a single day.  I would give anything...   almost     anything   .... to have one more day to be with Mama and share all of the good parts of life with her. Yet, at the same time, if it turns out I only have 13 more years (or less) to live, I'm going to be pretty darn angry that my time here on earth ended so prematurely.  Without a doubt, 13 years will never be a sufficient amount of time to live it all, to do it all, to see it all.

One day really is such a gift but 13 years will never, ever be enough.

Scrumptious, Fee

My dad's pet name for my mom was, "Fee".  I remember it being used most affectionately at the end of dinner.  My dad would  push back his chair when he was done eating the meal my mom had made for him.  He would stand up, look over toward her and announce his approval and appreciation.

"Scrumptious, Fee!" he'd call out.

She would nod and grin.



40 years later I dip my spoon into the hot, bubbly stroganoff gravy. The cats at my feet stare, focused intently on me while I blow on the liquid, willing me to drop some on the floor. When it's cool enough, I taste it.  It is fantastic.  I drop the spoon in the sink, look over toward the cats and announce my approval and appreciation for my own cooking. I announce my appreciation for my mother.  I announce for that hidden, empty spot inside me.

 "Scrumptious, Fee!" I call out.

The words echo in my head, perhaps even in the room.
I wonder if she hears me.
I wonder if, somewhere, she nods and grins.



10 years ago tomorrow my mom died.



I've written several blogs about my mom and none of them were easy to write, this one included.  After 10 years of her being gone, she deserves to finally be honored with an uplifting story, a happy memory or an amusing anecdote representative of all the good that she had in her.

I'm surprised though, that I'm having a hard time writing that positive blog, surprised at how close to the surface the tears are.

I'm surprised that occasionally, still, I will think that I should give her a call. An awful lot has happened in the last 10 years. We would have over analyzed all of it for hours and hours, I'm sure.



I miss talking to her.


We used to speak every day, you know.

*************************************************************************


I just finished my cup of tea.  It was fantastic.
I announce my appreciation for the tea.
I announce my appreciation for my mother.
I announce for that hidden, empty spot inside me.

"Scrumptious, Fee!" I call out.



I wonder if she hears me.



 My daughter is a fan of the fantastic tea and was the one who recommended I try it.
 I should message her and tell her I liked it. 



We message every day, you know.

Granny and granddaughter

30 Years

I saw Nancy in the produce section of the grocery store.

At the time, we had graduated from high school together, 25 years earlier and 90 miles away from that store.

We compared our fruit.  The last cantaloupe I bought was terrible.  Her watermelon was fantastic.

We spoke of the children. Hers had grown. Mine had too.

I asked about her brother, my one time TOLO date.

She talked about her
cancer.

I nodded sympathetically and hugged her awkwardly. 

I'm sure I said the wrong thing.  

I left that store thanking God it wasn't me.

Except then it was.

It was
me.

With
the 

cancer.

I recently went to my 30th high school reunion.  Many years ago I crossed paths with these people in the hometown I was born and raised in. From the Madison Elementary School playground to the drama of La Venture Middle School to the science classes in the Mt. Vernon High School S-buildings (RIP S-buildings), I experienced many of life's formative experiences with these people.  During my reunion I spoke with many classmates who were old friends.  Some, however, I spoke with for the very first time. We reminisced on the small part of life that we all had in common years ago and shared stories about the 30 years of life that had passed since graduation.


Partway through the evening I found myself standing in a corner having a lovely conversation with two other classmates who had also been diagnosed with cancer.   We were laughing at Dave's funny radiation story when I saw Nancy's face again.  The slide show playing in the background included photos of her and other classmates who had died much too young.

I suddenly felt very grateful to be there in that room.



One minute the inside of my head was screaming at me, "Can you believe you are
standing in the
CANCER corner?"

The next minute I was yelling back, "Yeah, can you believe I am

STANDING. 

HERE.

At my 30th reunion,
In the cancer survivors corner.



Reunions are hard for me.
I never know the right thing to say.

I wish Nancy could have been at our reunion.  I wonder if I had known that produce section conversation would be the last time I would ever speak to her, would I have made more of an effort to listen to and understand her? Would I have known the right thing to say?   I looked around the room at my classmates who came to the reunion that night. I did enjoy talking with them.  I was glad they came to the reunion.  I looked up again at the slideshow of those classmates we had lost.

I wondered




**********************************

I've had this blog in process for weeks now, since the day after my 30th class reunion.   I haven't posted it because it wanders a bit and I didn't know what I was trying to say.  I didn't know what story I was trying to tell.  And I could NOT bring myself to write that last sentence.

"I wondered how many of us would be alive for the next reunion."

I didn't want to write it because it is terrible, depressing and not at all helpful.  It's something I worry about a lot.  It hits a bit close to home.  But then today, I received word that another classmate had died. I remembered his face and how he made me laugh.   I pictured the next reunion slideshow and it was terrible and depressing.


**********************************

I saw my classmates at my recent class reunion.

We  graduated from high school together, 30 years earlier and 5 miles away from that restaurant.

We spoke about our lives.  

We laughed at the past.
We hoped for the future.

Reunions are hard for me.
I never know the right thing to say.   

Nancy's Obituary

Her Spunk Left This World

The cat stared back.

She was the only brave one.

 

We could barely stand to look her in the eye.  

We wondered if she knew these were her last hours alive.

The college girl held onto the cat and sobbed.   As a small, squeaky voiced elementary school girl, she had wandered through the shelter cages and declared that the mottled brown mess with the white patch on her belly was the one.  And now, 10 years later, she had rushed home from college to say goodbye. 

Tomorrow the husband and I would take our fluffy Millie Willie Silly Billy Pumpkin Pie Kitty Cat to the vet.  The sympathetic vet would take a needle and stick it into her.  Our Millie would look us in the eye as the last of her spunk left this world.   We would stand there with our box of Kleenex and would watch her die.

We would pay the vet to do this.

Because we felt it was the best thing to do.

Because we weren’t rich and couldn’t afford to pay for the treatment she deserved.

Because we didn’t want to see her suffer.

This is what we told ourselves.

We were miserable.

The college girl stared blankly at the children gathered around Santa.  She had rushed back to school so she could volunteer at a Christmas party for the neediest children in her community.  Two hours ago she was holding her sick cat.  Now she wondered if the cat was even still alive.

She was miserable.

The little girl didn’t own a coat.  Her mother said the girl’s thin sweatshirt didn’t keep her warm or dry when she waited for the bus.  While the little girl sat on Santa’s lap, the college girl helped her mother pick out a small warm coat from the pile of donated ones.  The mother moved on to pick out a Christmas present for her daughter.  It would be the only thing that would be under the tree this year.   The college girl watched as the mother then took the little girl to get her face painted and to pick out a brand new book to take home.  The little girl couldn’t stop smiling.

She was happy.

After a few hours, the college girl walked out of the building with a fellow volunteer.   The college girl said she should hurry back to her dorm to study for her finals.  The volunteer, a foster mother, said she should hurry back home to the baby she was currently taking care of.   “She’s a sweet baby who’s had a tough life already,” the woman told the college girl.  “This little baby’s dad got angry and threw her against the wall. Right now her head is held together with staples.”

The woman smiled and waved as she walked away.

When I talked to the college girl I expected crying, I expected sad.

But her voice was calm.

I worried out loud.

She assured me she was fine. 

I questioned that.

She told me about her day. 

She told me her problems didn’t seem so big anymore.

When we said our prayers that night we prayed that our Millie was in a good place.  But we also prayed for that little girl and that little baby. 

We were grateful.

Check This Out!

I highly recommend the book, The Boys in the Boat, by Daniel James Brown.  Tons of history, drama and inspiration ensure you won't put it down. It's being made into a movie-that should tell you how good it is.  

All That Was Good

It was a sunny Friday afternoon when the neighbor and I stood on the sidewalk and were surrounded by all that was good in the neighborhood.

The little girl’s blonde hair was a blur when she flew by on the bike she had just learned to ride. A brand new Spider Man costume ran by with a happy little boy inside. The teenage boy mowed a lawn that wasn’t even his own. At the end of the street the toddlers giggled. Their mothers talked of trading babysitting and trading recipes. The man up the street was underneath his car, changing the oil. The man down the street was washing his car. His son was perfecting his skateboarding tricks. A jogger ran by and waved. A calico cat took a bath in the center of the road. Three big dogs trotted by, dragging their owner by a leash. You could hear the soccer practice at the nearby school.

All the grass was green because of last week’s rain. Next spring we would all have iris in our yards because one neighbor had shared her large bunch. One family would have apple pie that weekend, made from the apples that were shared by their next door neighbor. A 15 year old girl planned how she would wear her hair for the upcoming homecoming dance. She wondered if the neighbor girl she’s known since she was 4 years old was going to homecoming too. An elderly man, two houses up, said goodbye to the neighbor who had checked in on him. Some third grade girls ran to the neighborhood park to hang upside down on the monkey bars. The neighbor who always takes care of the park wondered if it might need some new bark. You could smell the barbeque from someone’s backyard. Another neighbor was finishing up the potato salad. Tonight, the neighbors would gather.

It was a sunny Friday afternoon when the neighbor and I stood on the sidewalk and were surrounded by all that was good in the neighborhood.





It was that same sunny Friday afternoon when the TV news reporter came to our neighborhood and stood on the sidewalk with the neighbor and I.

“Have you heard about the shooting?” she asked.

Have you heard about the horrible things and the awful stuff and the ugliness and the chaos?

Did you hear it was your neighbor?



Your neighbor was shot.

Your neighbor is dead.





Standing on that sidewalk, in the middle of our neighborhood, the neighbor and I knew that none of what the reporter had just said would ever make any sense to us.


You see, our neighbor was a big part of all that was good in the neighborhood.




It was past my bedtime on a dark Friday evening when I turned on the late night news. I saw my neighborhood on TV. The little girl’s blonde hair was a blur off in the distance as she rode her bike down the street. The grass was just as green from last week’s rain. You could hear a dog barking.

I heard the reporter’s voice coming from my TV.


“Neighbors say they are shocked. Neighbors say he was a good man.”


RIP RW

Becoming My Mother

It was when I started reading celebrity biographies that it occurred to me that I just might have…finally… become my mother. She loved those biographies. I had never been a fan of them myself. But, here I was, sitting on my bed, staring at a stack of biographies on the nightstand in front of me. I remember many times when my mother had in front of her, a similar stack, and would try to decide which biography to read first from the many she had picked out at the library. And here I was, so many years later, doing the very same thing.

I was aware that my transition to becoming my mother had started awhile ago. I had, for some time, been warning my family to throw out raw meat that had turned brown in the package. I cautioned them to watch out for falling pallets in warehouse stores. I had started carrying a Kleenex in my pocket and placing the children in front of me in family photos. I found myself becoming irrationally overprotective of my father and brothers. And, without thinking, I began to put extra mayonnaise on my family’s sandwiches.

Increasingly, the signs of my transition had become somewhat undeniable.

Like any independent young woman, I was convinced early on, that my life’s journey would be very different than the one my mother had taken. And for some time, it was. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve found my life’s journey coming full circle to a place that would have been very familiar to my mother. Certain personality traits and interests and values that were so uniquely hers, I am now finding myself wholeheartedly embracing as my own. It would have been such a joy to share with her these new things we would have had in common.

But I can’t.

Because on this day, two years ago, my mother died.

I would have dearly loved to have had more time with her. However, at the time she died, I was thankful for and content with the 38 years that we did have together.

But, now that I’ve become my mother, it is quite apparent that 38 years together wasn’t nearly enough time at all. Now that I like celebrity biographies, just like she did, I’m not so content anymore. I want her to recommend some biographies for me. I want to talk to her about the Dean Martin biography I just read. Now that I’ve become my mother, the last 2 years suddenly seems like such a very, very, long time for her to be gone. 2 years seems like a long time not to talk to your mother.

It’s too bad that it took me 40 years to become my mother. It’s too bad she’s no longer here to enjoy our new found similarities. It’s too bad, because I have a feeling she would have liked me a lot.



In Loving Memory of MAMA.

One of the few times she didn't get away with standing behind me in a picture. Taken, my senior year in high school, May 1987, at the Mother's Tea.

It Makes Me a Little Nervous

I read the newspaper obituaries every week. It’s because I’m at that age. The age when anything is possible. People my age run multi-million dollar companies. People my age climb Mt. Everest. People my age are seasoned rock stars. But, people my age also get cancer and diabetes. People my age are starting to have back trouble and need prescriptions. In fact, people my age are starting to die.

And as unusual as it might be, it makes me a little nervous.


“How old was she?”

That’s usually the first question I ask. I’m always praying that the dead person was older than me. It makes me feel better, a little less vulnerable. I want to know if they smoked… because I don’t. I want to know if they exercised… because I have a treadmill. I want to know if they enjoyed too much whiskey and nasty frozen Mexican dinners… because I don’t… drink whiskey. I’d like to be able to pinpoint a reason that explains why that person died and I didn’t. As awful as it is, I can understand it when really old, really sick people die. But I’m not ready for people like me to start dying. It makes me a little nervous.

Recently a father in my suburb died. This man’s death hit a little too close to home for me. He was the parent of a teenager- just like me. He went to the same grocery store. He volunteered at the same school. He drove down the same highway. His death made me a little nervous.

While I was sad for this man’s family, I was, I’m embarrassed to say, also selfishly worried about myself. I thought of how difficult this loss would be for my daughter who was the same age as his. I thought of how difficult a loss like this would be for my family and my friends. I needed to find a reason that made him different than me and would convince me that my destiny was different than his had been. And so, of course, I wondered how old he was. I wondered if he smoked. I wondered if he was overweight. I wondered if he worked too many hours in a highly stressful job. I examined my standard list of reasons hoping that one might differentiate me from my suburban counterpart.

A week or two after this local father’s death, his obituary came out in our town’s newspaper. And I must say, it was a surprisingly honest and forthright obituary. Apparently, in his younger years, this man was a bank robber. “He robbed 49 banks in total before being caught by the FBI. He then spent nine years in federal prisons thinking about his life.”

Oh,I felt so much better. The stress from bank robbing and incarceration can’t be good for anyone’s health. I felt confident that I probably did have some time left on this earth, afterall. I may be at that age when people around me are getting prescriptions, getting sick and even dying. I may even have a few of my own bad habits that I need to work on. But at least I haven’t robbed any banks or been in prison. At least I had that going for me.




Check This Out!


Years ago I worked at a Waldenbooks in the Teton Mall in Idaho Falls, Idaho. My boss let me take home any book from the store that I wanted to as long as I brought it back in good condition. The husband was working long hours and I spent every waking moment immersed in the best fiction of that time. I was in heaven.

In the years since then, I've become more of a non-fiction reader. However, after thoroughly enjoying the prior Slightly Exaggerated recommendation, Water for Elephants, by Sara Gruen, I am making more of an effort to read good fiction like I used to. And here is some good fiction by first time novelist Dalia Sofer. Her book, The Septembers of Shiraz, was a Notable Book of the Year by The New York Times Book Review. Set in Iran after the fall of the Shah, a wealthy Jewish father is taken prisoner by the Revolutionary Guards. Full of history and drama it's an honest look at what motivates people. The author's family escaped Iran in 1982 when she was 10 lending an added layer of credibility to this novel. I do tend to be quite fond of books about the Middle East and this definitely kept my interest the whole time.

Numb

My mother died one year ago today.




I guess I feel it should be acknowledged somehow.


I just don’t think I know how to do that, though.

I’ve been trying to find a way to package the last year into a tidy blog full of lessons that I have learned. I want to tell you stories of how I have been profoundly affected by the death of my mother. I want to share the newfound wisdom that arrives when one emerges on the other side of a life changing event.

I just don’t think I can do that, though.

I could tell you that life does go on. People adjust. Good things still happen. I could tell you that it’s still possible to be happy and laugh and find tremendous joy in life. I could tell you that my memories of my mother’s uniqueness and way of navigating through life are priceless. I could tell you that I am grateful for the time I had. I could tell you how aware I am that things far worse happen to people every day. I could tell you how lucky I feel that they haven’t happened to me. I could tell you that things eventually do get back to normal.

I just don’t think I would be telling the entire truth, though.

I could tell you that, every single day, the phone is still maddeningly silent. I could tell you about tears, negativity, anger, unfairness, feeling cheated and grief pounds. I could tell you about sleepless nights, crazy dreams, well intentioned advice and the standard steps for a journey of grief. I could tell you about my obsessions with obituaries, pineapple pizza, 3 Musketeers Mint candy bars, super soft blankets, a box of decoupaged soap and one cheap white vase. I could tell you about how nothing will ever be normal again.

I just don’t think you’d really understand, though.

I could tell you about the 85 year old lady at the soccer field who was so agile in both mind and body and had a mouth like a sailor. I could tell you how much I loved her at first and then how quickly I found myself resenting her vitality. I could tell you about the thousands of energetic and hopeful women I saw on TV who were walking to cure cancer. I could tell you how I yelled out in disgust, “Oh please, like that will make a difference! People are still going to die!” I could tell you about the lady in the grocery store who needed my help finding bran in the bulk foods department. I could tell you how shockingly livid I became when she told me a young girl like myself probably didn’t know a thing about “being stopped up”.

I just don’t think I really want to talk about those uncomfortable moments, though.

If I tried really hard I could come up with a representative parable full of deep meaning. I could reiterate how all of the standard lessons of life are completely true. I could implore you to connect with your loved ones while they are still alive. I could tell you to hug your kids and to call your mother. I could tell you that life is too short to be ruled by pettiness. I could tell you to count your blessings and appreciate all that you have today. I could tell you how much meaning these lessons take on after it’s too late to do anything about it. I could tell you to live each day as if it were your last and to not waste a moment.

I just don’t think it would really make that much difference, though.

When it comes down to it, I really don’t have a clue what to say about what happened a year ago today. Nothing about it can fit into a tidy little blog. I don’t have any good advice, or valuable lessons or touching revelations to share. When it comes down to it, I guess I feel just a little bit numb today.



Check This Out!

In honor of my mother, head on down to your local drugstore today and buy some nice lotion that smells like freesia or lilac, a couple of extra pair of black ankle socks, a National Enquirer newspaper, and a 2 liter bottle of cola. On your way home, pick up a biography of an old movie star and some Architectural Digest’s from the library. For dinner, you may choose a pineapple pizza from Domino’s Pizza, fish and chips or fettuccine alfredo without that spicy parsley on top. And don’t forget to activate the Bat Phone by calling your daughter and telling her what her brothers and father have been doing.

Cornbread

She was born in a one room log cabin in the mountains of North Carolina almost 89 years ago. She helped farm shares with her 8 brothers and sisters. She came from a time when water had to be hauled, clothes were washed on a scrub board and whippings were common. She came from a time when you grew your own food, milked your own cows and didn’t waste anything. Whether it be walking 3 miles to school barefoot or watching her sister burn to death in a meadow fire, she certainly experienced, early on, more than her share of hardship and tragedy. Yet, she persevered.

Throughout the rest of her life she continued to encounter obstacles that would pull most people under. Yet, she managed to ceaselessly employ that same perseverance along with a strong work ethic that, although common in her generation, is often lacking today. She didn’t wallow in self pity or overanalyze life and its imperfections. Without question, she plowed her way through it, got over it, and moved on to the good parts.

When she died, my grandmother was almost 89 years old. She was married for 55 years. She had 3 children, 14 grandchildren, 27 great grandchildren and 7 great, great grandchildren. She was the source and anchor of a lifetime of memories for our family. She affected each of us differently but without a doubt, she will forever be a part of every one of our lives. Some of us remember her cooking Some of us remember her gardening. .
Some of us remember her canning. Some of us remember her scrubbing us clean. Some of us remember her yelling at us to keep out of her begonias. But I can guarantee you, all of us remember two things. We all remember the wall in her garage where our family history was recorded. And all of us remember her cornbread.



You see, when life gave my grandmother lemons… she just made cornbread. In a preheated cast iron skillet, of course. With a little butter melted in the bottom. And maybe a pot of green beans too. Made with a dollop of bacon grease. And how could you say no to her applesauce cookies?

Her food may be gone. Her canned peaches may be gone. Her garden and house are certainly gone. And, sadly, her body is gone. But, yet she lingers. The stories are there. The pictures are there. The memories are there. And, I hope, her attitude is there. I hope that all who knew her are able to recognize the amazing gift that she was. I hope we are able to take the best of her. I hope we recognize the value of her life and remember the lessons she taught us. I hope we learn to plow through it, get over it, and move on to the good parts. And then have some cornbread.



In loving memory of Nanny




Cornbread

1 cup cornmeal (yellow or white)
1 cup all purpose flour
1/4 cup sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup milk
1/3 cup vegetable oil
1 large egg, lightly beaten

Preheat oven and cast iron skillet to 400 degrees. Near the end throw in a dollup of butter or bacon grease. Combine corn meal, flour, sugar, baking powder and salt in a bowl. Combine milk, oil, and egg in a bowl and mix well. Add milk mixture to flour mixture. Stir just until combined. Pour into preheated cast iron skillet. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes or until wooden pick inserted in center comes our clean.


Applesauce Cookies

1 cup shortening (I’ve always used butter)
2 cups sugar
2 eggs beaten
4 cups cake flour (I’ve always used all purpose)
1 tsp cinnamon
½ tsp cloves
1 tsp salt
1 tsp soda
2 tsp baking powder
2 cups unsweetened applesauce (I’ve always used whatever is in the fridge)

Cream shortening and sugar together. Beat egg, add to creamed mixture and blend well. Sift all ingredients together (if you feel like it) and add alternately with the applesauce to the creamed mixture. Be sure to add flour first and last. Drop by tablespoonfuls onto a cookie sheet. Bake 15 minutes at 375 degrees.

Blown Up

Head down, I took my place in line, nervously turning the small white candle around in my shaky, sweaty hand. I slowly shuffled forward toward the microphone, avoiding eye contact with those around me. I quietly spoke her name, lit the candle in my hand and placed it on the table next to her photo. When I turned around, I saw them, their eyes gazing downward. The funeral home room was filled with people, including many in my family, who had come to honor their loved one who had died. As I held in my tears and returned to my seat, my aunt and uncle were preparing to take their place in line. My uncle began to gather his oxygen tank that helps him breathe. My aunt then leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Maybe you should stay seated. It’s probably not safe to get your oxygen tank near all of these lit candles. You don’t want to blow us all up!” And suddenly, in that room filled with quiet sadness, deliberate reverence and poignant memories, I found myself highly amused and desperately trying to suppress a chuckle.

While my aunt’s comment initially struck me as quite funny, I have since come to believe it was more ironic, telling and significant than she could have ever known. It has been 4 months since my mother died and I have yet to find a better way to describe what the experience has been like for me. In one sense, my life and the person I used to be have been “blown up”. Surrounded by the resulting confusion and chaos, I am left with the scattered and damaged pieces of an old life that I am somehow expected to use to create a new, unfamiliar, motherless life.

I once read in a grief pamphlet that an important part of grieving, of getting back to “normal”, is accepting the fact that you will never get back to “normal”. The life I had with my mother is gone. I am forced to move on to a new normal, a new life. The trouble is, I don’t have a clue what that is and I don’t have any idea how to get there. And so, in these last 4 months, I’ve been on a roller coaster of emotion and I’ve been through a lifetime of experiences on my consuming, frustrating and unguided journey to the land of my new normal.

On this journey, I have felt lonely one day and embraced the next. I’ve often felt cheated only to then be unexpectedly blessed. I’ve been quite angry on numerous occasions only to then be shown new reasons to believe in goodness and hope. I’ve been precariously unstable at times only to wake up the next morning renewed and strong. One day I will desperately want to forget and the next day I will be desperate to remember. I will be extremely worried about those grieving with me only to draw strength from them later on. One day I will blindly flounder. The next day I will have clarity and direction to lead me on.

I’ve had so many caring, wonderful and thoughtful people ask me with an uncomfortable face and a nervous voice how the holidays were… “without your mom”. I haven’t had anyone ask me what it was like on that random Thursday when my class reunion booklet, the one my mother had planned on reading, arrived in my mailbox. No one has asked what it is like to go to the grocery store, walk by the Russian dressing, and feel like a memory just hit you in the heart with a hammer. No one has asked me what it feels like to stand crying at the entrance to the grocery store realizing that she won’t be able to read the real estate magazine you just picked up for her. No, it’s not the holidays that were hard. It’s every single other day of the year that’s hard.

I’ve learned that grief exists on an extremely wide spectrum. I’ve spoken with people who’ve been through the death of a loved one and, for a wide variety of reasons, it has barely registered as an event in their life. And conversely, I’ve also visited online grief chat rooms. I know people out there who will never recover from the extreme, downward spiral their life has taken since the death of their loved one. I know that I am lucky. I’m somewhere in the middle. While I may depressingly lament my sadness and fully absorb my grief, I also know, without a doubt, that I will someday arrive at the end of this journey fully intact. And when I see people dealing with other severe and often constant hardships in their lives, I can’t help but feel grateful that my own situation isn’t similar. I know that most people will inevitably deal with the death of a parent or two. This is my time.


My uncle stayed seated that day at the funeral home room and as a result, we all avoided what could have been a very dramatic candle lighting ceremony. Despite my best efforts, however, I have yet to be able to avoid my dramatic journey to my new normal. I haven’t been able to jump off this roller coaster and I haven’t been able to speed it up. But, just as I managed to sit, surrounded by grief, and find a bit of humor, a flash of happiness and a little chuckle in that funeral room, I will also do the same on this journey. Sometimes, I will still slowly shuffle forward, with my eyes gazing downward trying to find my seat and trying to control my tears. But, there will be times when I will manage to bend down and pick up my blown up pieces. And as I start figuring out where those pieces belong in the new normal, you can bet I will also find a few bits of humor, some flashes of happiness and many unsuppressed chuckles.


Check This Out!
The theme of the week at Slightly Exaggerated has been armchair mountain climbing. Try and catch your breath when you read No Shortcuts to the Top by Ed Viesturs. Try and put down the award winning Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer. There are also numerous DVD’s and coffee table books with amazing video and photos to visually aid your armchair travels. Check them out at your video store or library.

The Silent Phone

I picked up the silver phone with my shaky hand, clicked through the numerous phonebook listings and found the number for my parents. A lot had been happening. I had seen a ton of people the day before. There was so much to tell. She would want to know. I pushed the button to dial. As it rang, a slow and deep and painful depression overcame me. My stomach turned. I had just tried to call my mother and inform her of her own death. I had intended on telling her the details of the past few days, including information concerning her personal and heartfelt funeral, the lovely reception that followed with a slideshow and her favorite cake, and most importantly, the juicy gossip that I had learned during the whole event. My heart pounded and I stopped breathing as I realized that she would never answer the phone again. In shock, I hung up the phone and stared at it. The silent phone was blaringly loud.

It was a Thursday, the day I buried my mother. Her 13 year old grandson and the rest of the pallbearers gripped the side of the beautiful dark red wood casket she laid in. She was placed in the ground wearing her favorite purple sweater and matching button up, no wrinkle, cotton/poly blend shirt. Her face had more color than we had seen in months. In her sweater pocket were tokens the grandchildren had bravely parted with, in honor of their “Granny”. In her hands, my father had placed a copy of her favorite family photo. The people looked on with tears brimming in their eyes. Eight times more people than she had expected lined her grave to say goodbye. This is funny, because she always bought more than presents than anyone possibly needed, cooked more food than anyone could possibly eat and worried more than was humanly possible. Yet when planning her own funeral, she woefully underestimated the turnout.

The next day was a fittingly foggy Friday when I awoke, unrested, feeling that the prior day had been very busy and somehow unfulfilling. As I looked at my calendar that morning I realized that I had a haircut appointment that day. How could it be possible that life so quickly and callously returned to the mundane and normal, the insignificant and unimportant? The prior weeks and months had been a whirlwind assortment of factual and guestimated medical analysis that never quite made enough sense, attempted emotional support that always fell short of what was necessary and an underlying subconscious denial of everyone’s worst fear. And now, the empty and silent day after had arrived. Exhausted and confused, there were now only two things that I was sure of. Today, I would get a haircut. And there would be no phone call from my mother. The phone would be silent.

Over the next days and weeks, as I paged through the grief pamphlets from the hospice people and the funeral home, I learned that I would probably feel the typical shock, confusion, anxiety, anger, guilt and sadness. I might even experience some physical symptoms. What symptom surprised me the most however, was the profound and pervasive sense of unmatched loneliness that I felt. While I did not see my mother daily, we did speak on the phone nearly every day. And lately, the painful silence of the phone screamed at me loudly.

The greeting cards arrived with their attempts at comfort and consolation. The cards promised to share my loss. I am remembered in prayer and God will give me comfort. They reminded me of my inner strength and encouraged me to talk and remember the good times. They wished me courage. They wished me hope. They wished this sad time would pass quickly. Not one of those cards, however, wished that the silent phone would stop taunting me each time I walked by.

Kind neighbors would stop by to drop off their casserole. They would politely ask how I was doing. 2 hours later I was still babbling as the poor souls sat trapped on my sofa. Good friends emailed me to offer their support. 20 emails later I had forced them into the depths of analyzing death, family, psychology, philosophy, religion and the general meaning of life. They were left trying to catch up with their work. Sympathetic relatives would call to check in. I would jabber away about whatever crossed my mind in an attempt to fill the empty space. And when the neighbors left, the e-mailers logged off and the relatives went back to their lives, the loneliness returned and the silent phone started shouting at me again.

In this silent loneliness that echoes through me, I am left with the overwhelming sense that death is an expert teacher. I am grateful to death for pointing out, so obviously, the petty and extraneous and hollow pieces of life. Death has gifted me the pinpoint focus and mental clarity to know innately, without any doubt, what is now essential to my being. Through death, my family has gratefully been surrounded by people, worthy of daily emulation, who arose to provide support during the preceding months of misery. Death provided the camera in which I was able to see my own father and brothers behave in a way that can only be described as selfless, heroic and grand. Without death, my own husband would have never said that their example of not just proclaiming love, but actually showing it and living it, has made an indelible impression on his life. Death has shown me that even in grief and loneliness, a quiet peace can exist. In death, there can emerge goodness.

As I move forward, I am sure that I will continue to progress my way through this lengthy journey of grief. I know there will come a day when I will wake up having slept through the night. There will come a day when the nightmares stop. There will come a day when I will realize my inner strength and be able to remember the good times. There will come a day when you can email me or visit me and I won’t make you talk about the meaning of life. And I know there will come a day, as the grief pamphlet stated, that I will have worked my way through the 6 Reconciliation Needs of Mourning.

I also know however, in my lonely soul, that there will never again come a day when that phone will ring and it will be my mother. And that silent phone is one gift from death that I’d like to return.


Check This Out!

My friend Ben made this casserole for my family to eat during the sad times. This casserole is great anytime though, not just at funeral time!

Chicken and Rice

1.5 cups instant rice
1 can condensed cream of mushroom
1 can condensed cream of chicken
1 can condensed cream of celery

Mix all that together and spread in greased/sprayed 9x13 pan.
Place some chicken breasts on top of that.
Mix 2 chicken bouillon cubes in 2 cups boiling water and pour on top.
Bake at 350 degrees for 2 hours.

The Uncomfortable Silence

The people never arrived empty handed. They always brought food. From behind the living room curtain I could see their heavily laden arms carrying bags and buckets and boxes full of food to the front door.

“We’re so sorry for your loss,” they would say as I opened the door. “We’ve brought chicken.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. The one most bothered by the silence piped up. “Let’s eat chicken!”

And so, we ate chicken. And still, there was an uncomfortable silence.

The people gathered in the kitchen. They had to say "excuse me" to move around each other. They insisted on doing the dishes to ease their own inner tension. They spilled out onto the concrete floor of the garage and mingled among the overflowing recycle bin, the litter box that needed cleaning, and the tool bench stacked with golf balls. The living room was full. The people sat on the cold stone hearth. The blue folding chairs were brought in. She would have washed them first.

He sat in the corner trying not to cry, trying to make polite conversation. The children, some oblivious to the circumstances, played football in the front yard. There were a few mourners, overwhelmed by the numbers of people, who holed themselves up in the bedroom near the computer. The headline on Yahoo was, “Cancer Deaths Declining in the US”. They turned the computer off. It made them feel cheated. The newspaper was spread across the bed; the headline of the day searing through them, “I Survived Cancer-Now What ?” They turned the paper over. It made them angry.

The people tried so hard. They were so kind. Their words of comfort spilled forth. “She’s with our Lord.” “She’s no longer suffering.” “She’s in another dimension.” “You did so much for her, now you should focus on you.” “She’s looking down upon us now with a smile.” “She’s finished with her work here on earth.” “Her spirit is with us right now.” “Do you think granny will become a ghost?” “You do know that God had already prepared a place for her?”

Then there was an uncomfortable silence. The one most bothered by the silence piped up, “We have soup! Who wants soup?”

And so, we ate soup. And still, there was an uncomfortable silence.

The people whispered in the background. “Have you seen her cry yet? I haven’t seen her cry yet. She’s not dealing with this well, is she? She needs to cry.”

“No I haven’t seen her cry yet,” another whisperer answered. “But he sure is taking it hard. He hasn’t stopped crying. He’s not dealing with this well is he? He needs to get it under control a bit.”

And then, there was an uncomfortable silence. The one most bothered by the silence piped up, “Who wants pie? We have pumpkin pie!”

And so, we ate pumpkin pie. And still, there was an uncomfortable silence.

“Do you remember how she always had a kitchen towel slung over her shoulder?” “Do you remember how she always put others before herself?” “Do you remember how she always wanted everything to be fair?” “Wasn’t it wonderful how giving and kind and selfless she was?” “She would have been worried about the kids’ football going into the street.” “She would have washed those chairs.” “It was too soon, wasn’t it?” “At least she got to have grandkids.”

And then, there was an uncomfortable silence. The one most bothered by the silence piped up, “Who wants lasagna? We have lasagna!”

And so, we ate lasagna. And still, there was an uncomfortable silence.

“Do you want to be there when she is lowered into the ground?” “Do you want to place items in her casket?” “Do you want an open casket and a viewing period?” “Would you rather have a dove or a flower scene on the funeral programs?” “Do you want those flowers surrounding a gate or trailing over a trellis?” “We have a wonderful package that includes programs, the guest book, and the thank you notes for a very nice price.” “Do you want an $8,000 casket or our minimal $1,700 casket?” “And of course, you don’t want to skimp on the vault.” “I’m afraid the small graveside service for 20 has turned into a full chapel service for 160.” “Oh yes, we do understand your concerns. “

We left the funeral home in silence. The one most bothered by the silence piped up, “There’s sub sandwiches at home. We could eat those.”

And so, we ate sub sandwiches. And still, there was an uncomfortable silence.

We met with the pastor. “Tell me your memories,” she said. We couldn’t stop talking. The pastor couldn’t take down notes fast enough. We laughed. We cried. We bonded. We remembered. We expected her to walk in at any moment and correct us. But she never did. We were left on our own.

Instead, there was an uncomfortable silence. The one most uncomfortable with the silence piped up. “Someone dropped off stroganoff back at the house. We could eat that.”

And so, we ate stroganoff. And still, there was an uncomfortable silence.

“Do you remember the story when she was a kid and she bought that candy from the store that rivaled her dad’s store and she got in so much trouble?” “Do you remember when she threw those pancakes?” “What is this picture with her with the blond hair? “When did she have blond hair?” “Oh, look at her in that video…that’s just like her sitting in the back so the kids could have the good seats.” “Look how happy she was when he was born.” “What do you mean she did "the wave" at the bowling alley when she was younger?” “Why didn’t I appreciate these things more when she was alive? Why didn’t I know about some of these things?” “More people should be like her.” “Oh, she wouldn’t like that picture. We shouldn’t use it for the slide show or the photo board.” “I’m going to write something for the pastor to read.” “Are you going to speak at your mother’s funeral?”

And then, there was an uncomfortable silence. The one most uncomfortable with the silence piped up. “I think there are mashed potatoes and gravy in the fridge.”

And so, we ate mashed potatoes and gravy. And still, there was an uncomfortable silence.

Over the next few days we ate those mashed potatoes and gravy. And the fried chicken. And the ham. In fact, we ate all of the lasagna, the stroganoff, the coleslaw, the pumpkin pie, the chocolate cake, the doughnuts, the biscuits, the candy, the sub sandwiches, the croissant sandwiches, the fruit bowls, the stroganoff, the many, many salads, the butter tarts, the homemade cinnamon rolls and drank more soda and coffee than a person should have in a lifetime.

And still, there was an uncomfortable silence. Finally, the one most uncomfortable with the silence piped up. “I guess we should leave for the funeral now, shouldn’t we?”

In loving memory of MAMA.