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.

We Left the Boy

We left the boy.
It was time,
I suppose.

The husband and I got back into our car full of flattened boxes and
microwave shaped Styrofoam
and the empty seat he sat in
and we just
drove
south.

The two burritos we ate on the way home were cheaper than three, we noticed.
We paused a minute before we started to eat them.
It seemed, we were waiting for the boy.
But, of course, he was
where we left
him.

We drove home listening to the legendary music of our past.
We knew all the words and never once had to sing swear.
We drove home lamenting out loud, between songs,
"I hope he makes nice friends."
We muttered things like that.


The house was quiet and still when we arrived home.
 His room was bare and tidy;  the posters were gone.
There were dust outlines of things he had packed.
The leftover soccer trophies stared back at me.



I felt mommy empty when I climbed into bed.
I logged on, real quick, just to check
things online.



The local social media was jarring.

She died.
A week after him.
A year after the other boy.


So young.


Suicides.






They were from the boy's high school and he knew their names and faces.

I took my boy to college and posted photos of his new beginning.
I scrolled down the page and saw photos of their past.
I posted my proud moments and my hopes for his future.

I scrolled down and was immersed in their utter despair.




I've sent my son to college.
The husband and I awake each morning to an empty nest.
People seem to think we are in the midst of adversity.
People seem to think this is a hardship.
People seem worried.


They have no idea.




Thank God I get to miss my son.
Thank God he gets to have this future.
Thank God I get to wonder if his roommate is someone I would approve of.
Thank God I get to hope he'll study a bit more than he plays video games.
Thank God I get to not so gently remind him to eat a vegetable or two.
Thank God he will be annoyed with me reminding him to do that.
Thank God I get to worry if he found someone to eat lunch with.
Thank God I get to bug him to join an intramural sports team
Thank God I get to post pictures of his

dorm room

and not his



obituary.







We left the boy. We did.
I'm sure I'll be plenty sad about it.
I'm sure it will be an adjustment.
I'm sure I'll miss him, quite a lot.




And I thank God for that.

Thoughts and Prayers

3 years ago I sat on my front porch and cried.
I had been diagnosed with cancer at the age of 45.

Forty.
Five.

I was terrified of my future.
The husband sat next to me in shock, witness to my panic.

"I can't die.
Not yet."

I declared it to him.

"I am NOT done (with the teenage boy)!
I have to at least get him through high school.
I need to see him graduate.


He still needs a mom."





3 weeks ago that teenage boy (man?) made me laugh.
We reminisced about the last few years.
We talked about his upcoming graduation.

I told him how proud I was of him and how hard he had worked.
He told me of his plans, his dreams, his future.
We remembered his high school experiences.
We remembered his accomplishments.
I teared up a bit, thankful I was still here.
I appreciated that moment.

He said, casually,  "But mom, don't forget about the best thing about me graduating.
Don't forget about my most important high school accomplishment."

I chuckled and said, "Oh, what is that?"




"I never got shot."






My son said that to me.

My baby boy, born 3 weeks early said that to me.
My toddler boy,  my little boy, my teenage boy, my adult son....


...he said that to me.

"I never got shot."


















It was one of those moments that,
perhaps literally,
broke my spirit.

My soul cracked.



He was joking about it.
But he wasn't.

We tried to laugh about it.
But we couldn't.


"Come on mom, in this day and age, that has to count for something."' he said,
trying to lessen the impact
that was obvious
on my face.


I'm very much aware that danger is everywhere and bad things can happen anywhere at any time.
But this is about what is forefront in your brain. This is about being afraid.

This is about walking out the door, backpack slung over your back, homemade sandwich tucked in the third pocket. Pencils sharpened.  Homework done, organized in the first pocket. This about saying goodbye to your mom.


This is about your mom fighting cancer, hoping to see you graduate from high school.
This is about walking out of your home, 17 days before you graduate from high school,
grateful that you haven't been shot there.


This is about wondering which one was the bigger threat.






There's a lot of life left,
for the boy and I, we hope.

He has a few days left of high school.
We both have a lifetime of needing to
walk out the door, without fear.

We would appreciate your
thoughts and prayers.

We've heard that's the solution.

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

Just Like Mama

“Oxycodone, Lorazepam, Dexamethasone, Zofran….”

I felt like I was reading my own medical chart.  But it wasn’t my chart.  It was hers.  They told me to take those same drugs too.

I was just like Mama.

We were diagnosed with breast cancer at the same age.  We didn’t have the same kind of breast cancer.  The engines driving their growth took a different fuel.  Yet our choices for treatment, decades apart in medical advancement, were remarkably similar.  We both gambled. We both prayed.

 

She lived.  16 ½ more years she lived. 

And then it was 2007 and she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer.  I looked through her papers from that time.   It all starts out so innocently.   “Patient presents as a very pleasant female who is being seen for further evaluation……”   There’s a little pain, a symptom.  There’s always a reason for it.   It’s always something else.   

And then it’s not something else. 

I looked through her papers and recognized how it began.  My ovarian ultrasound told me I was premenopausal.   Hers told her that, simply, she was postmenopausal.   My CT scan couldn’t find any reason why my hip should be hurting.  But hers, only one week after her clear ultrasound, declared the finding of multiple masses consistent with metastatic disease of uncertain etiology.  

I looked through her papers and saw the system. I knew the insurance codes in her bills.  I knew eligible coverage limits and abnormal biopsy results and taxane side effects.  I read about the nutritionist's recommendations.  I saw how long it takes to have a walker delivered.  I found out about the price of morphine.   Her papers showed me the progression.   Her papers told me how it ended.

The insurance company sent her a certificate 3 weeks after she had died on October 6th.  Dear Kathryn, the cancellation date of your coverage is effective October 6th.   Please keep this certificate of coverage as required by federal law.   Kathryn, we thank you for choosing our insurance company for all of your insurance needs.   

I sat there on the worn out carpet at the top of my stairs, surrounded by her ovarian cancer bills, surrounded by her second fight with cancer. My hip still hurt.  I was panicking.   Was I looking at my future?  Was I going to be just like Mama? 

It’s clear, my oncologist said in 2015, there is something going on here.  Every genetic test he ordered, every one available, said otherwise.   My fancy genetics doctor is certain there’s a genetic component we haven’t found yet, one we don’t know how to test for yet.  After all, he said, when your mom got her breast cancer, we didn’t even know your type of breast cancer existed.  Years later, by the time your mom got ovarian cancer, we finally knew about your type of breast cancer.  Every year there’s progress, he said.  Every year.

I wondered if progress would ever stop my panic. I wondered if progress would ever give me peace of mind.  I wondered if progress would ever catch up to me.  

It took me almost an hour but I shredded her papers.  Oh, I kept a few of the important ones. I kept the insurance certificate.  It was required by federal law, after all.

But I shredded the rest.  I shredded them and I… made… it… all… go… away…

It felt good.  It felt like progress.

Guardian Angel

If you were to remind me that it’s been 5 years, 3 months and 3 days since my mother died, I would swear that somehow you were wrong.

 And then I would change the subject.

I wouldn’t tell you how I really feel about the whole thing.  I wouldn’t tell you about the good and the happy.  I wouldn’t tell you about the sad and the void.  I know I wouldn’t say much at all.  I’d keep it all inside.

 

 

But then along came Gracie.

 

She is beautiful and innocent and every part of her is good.  

Somehow fate has determined that my mother would never meet her 5^th grandchild. Gracie would never sit in her arms, look up at her face and giggle.  Granny would have loved Gracie.

 It all seemed so incredibly unfair. 

 

I look at Gracie’s Facebook pictures and each one is cuter than the last.  I read the comments about how much she looks like her mom-and she does look like her mom.  But sometimes she looks like her dad.  Sometimes I’m staring at a baby that looks just like my brother did when he was a baby. 

 

 

 

It was either Thanksgiving or Christmas, 1975.  The picture was taken at the Bernice Street house.  We were all sitting on the orange and harvest gold flowered couch.  Grandpa had that thin short sleeve button up shirt on with those black rimmed glasses.  Uncle Steven had a freckled face and sat on Grandpa’s lap in wearing Toughskin jeans.  I was missing my front tooth and had hair that flipped up at the ends.  Great Grandma Titus sat on the edge wearing an oversized sweater draped over her best housecoat.  She crossed her hands across her chest in the same way I’ve seen every female in our family do.  And Granny sat on that couch, right in the middle, wearing a matching two piece black and white polka dot polyester ensemble.  Her hair was done. She was smiling.  On her lap was my brother, Gracie’s dad.   He was 7 or 8 months old.  He was wearing brown overalls and didn’t have any socks on.  His hand reached for the ribbon in my hair, his face full of concentration.  It is the same face of concentration I saw in Gracie’s Facebook video.

 My mother would have told Gracie she looks like her dad.  She would have showed her that picture.  She would have told her that story.

 

 

The chaos of the Christmas shopping crowds swirled around me as I looked at wrapping paper in Target a few weeks ago.  I mindlessly debated what I should buy when I was tapped on the shoulder.  I turned to find no one there.  I turned back to the wrapping paper.  There was yelling in my ear.  “I said turn around!”  But it was a quiet yell, somehow.  I knew it was only in my head.  I turned around to face the wall of Christmas ornaments behind me.  They were almost completely sold out.  There were 4 Disney ornaments off to the far left side.  And there was one ornament left smack dab in the middle of the display, all by itself.  It was an angel.  Carved into the ornament was, “Guardian Angel”.  

 

I don’t have any proof that I’m not crazy. 

I don’t have any proof that angels exist.

I can’t explain who spoke in my ear and said, “It’s for Gracie.”   But without one single ounce of doubt, I know I heard them. 

I have no way to explain how in an instant, in the midst of a crowd of Target Christmas shoppers, all was peaceful and all was good.  

But without one single ounce of doubt, I know that it was.

 

 

 

If you were to remind me that it’s been 5 years, 3 months and 3 days since my mother died, I would swear that somehow you were wrong.  And then I would tell you that it’s been over 3 months since my niece Gracie was born.  I’d tell you how sometimes she looks like my brother.  I’d show you the pictures to prove it.  I’d tell you how much my mom would have loved her.

 

 

And if you were lucky, I might even tell you a little story about a guardian angel.



Check This Out!

Of course, if you haven't seen one of the best angel movies ever, I strongly encourage you to watch It's a Wonderful Life.  With Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed in the lead roles, it's a classic everyone should see at least once.

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.

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.

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.