It seems like the places we've gone have been too much for sad reasons lately. It isn't entirely true, but you know how harsh words loom larger than kind ones? Sad trips loom larger than happy ones as well. We rolled north, returning to our homeland to say goodbye to someone we loved and with it came all the stress of travel, the joy of reunion and the heartbreak of death. Pretty typical trip to Indiana lately, I must say.
We rolled into the church right at 10 am on the dot, running late as is our usual in a family with two special needs children, and I was directed into an ante room where we barged straight in on the whole family and Aunt Debbie's casket. The worshipers in the sanctuary were praying, and the processional inside had not begun. As we stumbled in, the twins, Julia and I, I gave Aunt Suzie a hug and right at that moment Miles chose to shout "Poop! I need diaper!"
Well if that's just not a circle of life moment I don't know what is.
I abandoned two of three children with Aunt Suzie and IN HEELS tore back out of the church to find my husband and oldest coming in, deposit Miles with them "He's pooped!" and run BACK into the church just in time to direct my own children to the back of the church. It's always better to be close to an exit when you have two severely autistic children, you never know when someone is going to begin shouting about poop, obviously.
The funny part is, I wasn't embarrassed. I've lived this life long enough that I can't be embarrassed by autism anymore. I felt bad that other people had to be part of the crazy at such a sad and stressful time but, that's also LIFE STUFF and life isn't always tidy and reverent.
I also happen to know Aunt Debbie would've laughed.
The little town where the girls lived (we called them the girls, grown ass almost 70 year old women and we called them the girls, I don't know why) is a little sleepy town on it's way to really damn hip. After the funeral we decided to go wander a bit and see what we could find to see and do, and to let the kids relax a little bit.
We found what might actually be the very worst ice cream shop in the world. I mean, there might be worse, but one usually expects a certain LEVEL of ice cream at these sort of artisan little creamery places right? First see how GRAINY that ice cream is? OMG IT IS TERRIBLE RIGHT? It tasted worse than it looks. It was GRAINY. As though it were Ice Milk which is something you probably never had unless you diet or grew up poor. My grandmother wasn't poor but had a weird thing for it. It's garbage.
My kids however, thought it was amazeballs.
Trying to use hip words. Go with me.
Here was the really amazing part of our day, however, the moment of meaning in the sorrow that happened as we said goodbye to someone we loved. Julia said "We're just like Aunt Debbie like that man said." That man was the preacher at the funeral and he had talked about the way she loved to travel, and how she was always going places, seeing the world, and visiting he friends along the way. "We like to go lots of places and see the world too," Julia told me. "We are just like Aunt Debbie."
Really, that's one of the best things I've ever heard. And I know she would approve.
It seems like the places we've gone have been too much for sad reasons lately. It isn't entirely true, but you know how harsh words loom larger than kind ones? Sad trips loom larger than happy ones as well.
We rolled north, returning to our homeland to say goodbye to someone we loved and with it came all the stress of travel, the joy of reunion and the heartbreak of death.
Pretty typical trip to Indiana lately, I must say.
We rolled into the church right at 10 am on the dot, running late as is our usual in a family with two special needs children, and I was directed into an ante room where we barged straight in on the whole family and Aunt Debbie's casket. The worshipers in the sanctuary were praying, and the processional inside had not begun. As we stumbled in, the twins, Julia and I, I gave Aunt Suzie a hug and right at that moment Miles chose to shout "Poop! I need diaper!"
Well if that's just not a circle of life moment I don't know what is.
I abandoned two of three children with Aunt Suzie and IN HEELS tore back out of the church to find my husband and oldest coming in, deposit Miles with them "He's pooped!" and run BACK into the church just in time to direct my own children to the back of the church. It's always better to be close to an exit when you have two severely autistic children, you never know when someone is going to begin shouting about poop, obviously.
The funny part is, I wasn't embarrassed. I've lived this life long enough that I can't be embarrassed by autism anymore. I felt bad that other people had to be part of the crazy at such a sad and stressful time but, that's also LIFE STUFF and life isn't always tidy and reverent.
I also happen to know Aunt Debbie would've laughed.
The little town where the girls lived (we called them the girls, grown ass almost 70 year old women and we called them the girls, I don't know why) is a little sleepy town on it's way to really damn hip. After the funeral we decided to go wander a bit and see what we could find to see and do, and to let the kids relax a little bit.
We found what might actually be the very worst ice cream shop in the world. I mean, there might be worse, but one usually expects a certain LEVEL of ice cream at these sort of artisan little creamery places right? First see how GRAINY that ice cream is? OMG IT IS TERRIBLE RIGHT? It tasted worse than it looks. It was GRAINY. As though it were Ice Milk which is something you probably never had unless you diet or grew up poor. My grandmother wasn't poor but had a weird thing for it.
It's garbage.
My kids however, thought it was amazeballs.
Trying to use hip words. Go with me.
Here was the really amazing part of our day, however, the moment of meaning in the sorrow that happened as we said goodbye to someone we loved. Julia said "We're just like Aunt Debbie like that man said." That man was the preacher at the funeral and he had talked about the way she loved to travel, and how she was always going places, seeing the world, and visiting he friends along the way. "We like to go lots of places and see the world too," Julia told me. "We are just like Aunt Debbie."
Really, that's one of the best things I've ever heard. And I know she would approve.
When someone dies there is an insane amount of stuff to do. I'm not sure if that's by design to keep the grieving busy, plugged into the "business" of life, but it's true. There are people to call, there are things to sign. There are documents to review. There are more people to call.
It's about a year and a half since both of my parents died and I still have those moments when I realize I never contacted person X. I also don't know how to get ahold of person X, if they're living, where they are now etc, yet at some point they were a significant part of one or both of my parent's lives and it pains me a little not to have been able to share with them that they died. Sometimes it's simpler, sometimes it's just that in the overwhelming moments after their deaths, I forgot.
It was a lapse like that last week that caused me to find out that one of my beloved aunties died via Facebook. Settling into the category of "where was I when I heard" is now the moment that I was sipping coffee in my kitchen and scrolling through Facebook when I saw it. A condolence to one Aunt regarding the other.
Aunt Debbie had died. A frantic phone call to my SIL who had only just recently heard also confirmed the worst.
So north we had to go, once again making the trip out of grief.
I have a short list of people who have known me longer than my memory extends. I don't mean random family who have known of me, rather I mean truly know me. Losing these people is a bit like losing some of my self, losing some of my history - the bits I don't recall. They know stories I don't know and once they are gone those stories are lost forever. The number of times I realize I need my mom to tell me something or remind of the details of something are legion - and growing.
We rented a van because ours is still crashed up and headed back toward the land of our people. We went to show support and love for Aunt Suzie, and love & respect to our Aunt Debbie who was a staple in our family.
Kids handle everything better than adults I think. Julia loved her Aunt Debbie hugely but seemed, despite being sad, to accept that this happened whereas I'm still compelled to rage. Maybe it's because little kids whole worlds are dictated to them, they don't assume things could go a different way.
That's probably the fairytale of being adult - you think you could've changed fate "if only".
Post Script: Julia spent a lot of time trying to decide what to wear to the funeral and settled on this.
While it wasn't what she actually wore, I feel like Aunt Debbie would have truly appreciated the spirit in which this plan was made.
When someone dies there is an insane amount of stuff to do. I'm not sure if that's by design to keep the grieving busy, plugged into the "business" of life, but it's true. There are people to call, there are things to sign. There are documents to review. There are more people to call.
It's about a year and a half since both of my parents died and I still have those moments when I realize I never contacted person X. I also don't know how to get ahold of person X, if they're living, where they are now etc, yet at some point they were a significant part of one or both of my parent's lives and it pains me a little not to have been able to share with them that they died. Sometimes it's simpler, sometimes it's just that in the overwhelming moments after their deaths, I forgot.
It was a lapse like that last week that caused me to find out that one of my beloved aunties died via Facebook. Settling into the category of "where was I when I heard" is now the moment that I was sipping coffee in my kitchen and scrolling through Facebook when I saw it. A condolence to one Aunt regarding the other.
Aunt Debbie had died. A frantic phone call to my SIL who had only just recently heard also confirmed the worst.
So north we had to go, once again making the trip out of grief.
I have a short list of people who have known me longer than my memory extends. I don't mean random family who have known of me, rather I mean truly know me. Losing these people is a bit like losing some of my self, losing some of my history - the bits I don't recall. They know stories I don't know and once they are gone those stories are lost forever. The number of times I realize I need my mom to tell me something or remind of the details of something are legion - and growing.
We rented a van because ours is still crashed up and headed back toward the land of our people. We went to show support and love for Aunt Suzie, and love & respect to our Aunt Debbie who was a staple in our family.
Kids handle everything better than adults I think. Julia loved her Aunt Debbie hugely but seemed, despite being sad, to accept that this happened whereas I'm still compelled to rage. Maybe it's because little kids whole worlds are dictated to them, they don't assume things could go a different way.
That's probably the fairytale of being adult - you think you could've changed fate "if only".
Post Script: Julia spent a lot of time trying to decide what to wear to the funeral and settled on this.
While it wasn't what she actually wore, I feel like Aunt Debbie would have truly appreciated the spirit in which this plan was made.
There's a lot of work to do to get ready for a funeral. There's the funeral work. My brother did that. He asked me a lot of questions, getting my opinion. Luckily, being raised by the same mother we're in sync with so many things that it wasn't a battle or an ordeal. He'd call and say "I'm thinking this" and I was so thankful he'd thought of something I didn't find any reason to find fault with it.
I'm grateful for that. I know some people have to deal with their grief in addition to sudden battles over burial or cremation, viewing or not, what prayers what songs, what what what what? It becomes a power struggle. Maybe it's an ego struggle as everyone pushes their own agenda. I don't know because it wasn't my experience. My brother had good ideas as we walked toward this new experience together and I was grateful for them.
On my end there was the travel. There is the travel prep and then there is the travel itself. I'm not sure which is more tiring.
We acquired dresses and suits and ties, and checked the tires. Preparations were made of various sorts as we got ready to head north.But most importantly, we had to tell our kids.
Everyone knew that Grandma was very sick and wouldn't live long. I suppose that's the reason no one questioned this sudden flurry of shopping. But my brother and I had agreed to tell our children at about the same time before we did a general announcement in the land of social media and as the sun set I got his message that he had told his children.
My turn.
We were sitting in Chilli's having a typical sub-par meal and so at one point I shared the information with them. I felt numb as I said the words. "Grandma died today."
They stared at me with blank faces, but the calm might have been more disturbing than a huge outburst. They acknowledged what I had said, and seemed sad but at the same time I don't know what I expected. A friend of mine recently said "Dammit feel my shit the way I want you to" as a joke. But that's how I felt. I wanted someone else to feel as gutted as me and I felt guilty for wanting it to be my children, I guess I just wanted to not feel so alone in this pain. I worried and worried about how they would take it. Then they took it with sadness but calm and I felt like they didn't seem to care as much as I wanted them to.
Then I felt bad for feeling like that.
I remember when my Grandpa died, with whom was I was very close. My mom was her Daddy's girl and by the same token so was I. When he died I was devastated. I remember crying and crying when my daddy told me. But then after that I don't remember really crying again in the immediate days after. I remember getting a new dress at Newkirks which was the best shop in town. I remember being very impressed by this dress.
I remember the spectacle of it all being actually quite fun, so many people and so much visiting plus all the food. It wasn't bad. It was happy because of all the love and family being around.
I suppose that then it shouldn't have surprised me that despite my own sadness, my children found fun and activity on the way there.
There was coloring and laughing at dinner on our stop and I couldn't any fault with that at all.
Julia made a treasure map to get to the funeral. All maps are treasure maps it seems. I can't find any fault with that either.
We crossed rivers and states and traveled north to the land where our people live and our people have died. It was a long drive and it was past bed time when we rolled in.
Nickajack is always one of my favorite views on the trip. At least the trip is scenic.
There's a lot of work to do to get ready for a funeral. There's the funeral work. My brother did that. He asked me a lot of questions, getting my opinion. Luckily, being raised by the same mother we're in sync with so many things that it wasn't a battle or an ordeal. He'd call and say "I'm thinking this" and I was so thankful he'd thought of something I didn't find any reason to find fault with it.
I'm grateful for that. I know some people have to deal with their grief in addition to sudden battles over burial or cremation, viewing or not, what prayers what songs, what what what what? It becomes a power struggle. Maybe it's an ego struggle as everyone pushes their own agenda. I don't know because it wasn't my experience. My brother had good ideas as we walked toward this new experience together and I was grateful for them.
On my end there was the travel. There is the travel prep and then there is the travel itself. I'm not sure which is more tiring.
We acquired dresses and suits and ties, and checked the tires. Preparations were made of various sorts as we got ready to head north.But most importantly, we had to tell our kids.
Everyone knew that Grandma was very sick and wouldn't live long. I suppose that's the reason no one questioned this sudden flurry of shopping. But my brother and I had agreed to tell our children at about the same time before we did a general announcement in the land of social media and as the sun set I got his message that he had told his children.
My turn.
We were sitting in Chilli's having a typical sub-par meal and so at one point I shared the information with them. I felt numb as I said the words. "Grandma died today."
They stared at me with blank faces, but the calm might have been more disturbing than a huge outburst. They acknowledged what I had said, and seemed sad but at the same time I don't know what I expected. A friend of mine recently said "Dammit feel my shit the way I want you to" as a joke. But that's how I felt. I wanted someone else to feel as gutted as me and I felt guilty for wanting it to be my children, I guess I just wanted to not feel so alone in this pain. I worried and worried about how they would take it. Then they took it with sadness but calm and I felt like they didn't seem to care as much as I wanted them to.
Then I felt bad for feeling like that.
I remember when my Grandpa died, with whom was I was very close. My mom was her Daddy's girl and by the same token so was I. When he died I was devastated. I remember crying and crying when my daddy told me. But then after that I don't remember really crying again in the immediate days after. I remember getting a new dress at Newkirks which was the best shop in town. I remember being very impressed by this dress.
I remember the spectacle of it all being actually quite fun, so many people and so much visiting plus all the food. It wasn't bad. It was happy because of all the love and family being around.
I suppose that then it shouldn't have surprised me that despite my own sadness, my children found fun and activity on the way there.
There was coloring and laughing at dinner on our stop and I couldn't any fault with that at all.
Julia made a treasure map to get to the funeral. All maps are treasure maps it seems. I can't find any fault with that either.
We crossed rivers and states and traveled north to the land where our people live and our people have died. It was a long drive and it was past bed time when we rolled in.
Nickajack is always one of my favorite views on the trip. At least the trip is scenic.
We had planned a day out on Sunday. We thought that perhaps some time in the park, fresh air and such, would be a welcome diversion from the oppressive stress that's been hovering over us. However upon reviewing the weather it became apparent that the remnants of Hurricane Erica or whatever it was named was bearing down on us.
The kids got me up early and I realized shortly after breakfast - WE HAD TIME.
So at 9:30 am we piled outside for frisbee and soccer and running around and squealing (sorry neighbors) while the storm clouds loomed in the west and south. It was short lived, but welcome, and as the rain began to fall we had to retreat to the safety of the porch.
I brought out the requisite coffee and a copy of Garden & Gun and watched the rain roll in. Having seen proper hurricanes a'plenty this wasn't much of a "to do" to me. Remnants of a has been storm, at best.
I sat and texted with my brother about the state of our mother. Fading, not great was the report. I got to talk to her, but it wasn't much of a conversation. I told her I loved her. She told me she was having trouble talking.
I realized I might never actually talk to my mom again. That is really one of the most unnatural things I have ever considered in my life.
More distraction was required.
When the rain let up and the sun came up we did head to the park to take to the trails through the woods.
We followed the family tradition of hunting for mushrooms, a photo safari - our tradition from when we first moved here.
The red one is the winner, obviously. Even kids who don't want to go walking through the woods find occupation in this game, I'm not sure why. Finding the most interesting mushrooms is always a challenge.
Given the stress level here, I can't imagine what it is at my brother's house, where it's ground zero for our impending family loss. Maybe they're handling it better as they are there. Or maybe I just can't tell because I am so damned self absorbed and selfish right now it's difficult for me to know which way is up, and they too are falling apart as much as I am.
I don't know.
I just know that we played outside in the fresh air, and time passed and it was good. I don't know if I need time to speed up or slow down right now. I just know that it's not my friend, and I feel suffocated by it.
We had planned a day out on Sunday. We thought that perhaps some time in the park, fresh air and such, would be a welcome diversion from the oppressive stress that's been hovering over us.
However upon reviewing the weather it became apparent that the remnants of Hurricane Erica or whatever it was named was bearing down on us.
The kids got me up early and I realized shortly after breakfast - WE HAD TIME.
So at 9:30 am we piled outside for frisbee and soccer and running around and squealing (sorry neighbors) while the storm clouds loomed in the west and south. It was short lived, but welcome, and as the rain began to fall we had to retreat to the safety of the porch.
I brought out the requisite coffee and a copy of Garden & Gun and watched the rain roll in. Having seen proper hurricanes a'plenty this wasn't much of a "to do" to me. Remnants of a has been storm, at best.
I sat and texted with my brother about the state of our mother. Fading, not great was the report. I got to talk to her, but it wasn't much of a conversation. I told her I loved her. She told me she was having trouble talking.
I realized I might never actually talk to my mom again. That is really one of the most unnatural things I have ever considered in my life.
More distraction was required.
When the rain let up and the sun came up we did head to the park to take to the trails through the woods.
We followed the family tradition of hunting for mushrooms, a photo safari - our tradition from when we first moved here.
The red one is the winner, obviously. Even kids who don't want to go walking through the woods find occupation in this game, I'm not sure why. Finding the most interesting mushrooms is always a challenge.
Given the stress level here, I can't imagine what it is at my brother's house, where it's ground zero for our impending family loss. Maybe they're handling it better as they are there. Or maybe I just can't tell because I am so damned self absorbed and selfish right now it's difficult for me to know which way is up, and they too are falling apart as much as I am.
I don't know.
I just know that we played outside in the fresh air, and time passed and it was good. I don't know if I need time to speed up or slow down right now. I just know that it's not my friend, and I feel suffocated by it.
Last night for the first night in days I slept hard. I felt drugged but was not. My husband tried to wake me up about a weird smell, but if I HAD to converse about this smell or had there been a fire I could not have done so. I was wiped out. Mentally, emotionally, and physically empty from the past few days. I haven't been a good wife, good friend, good employee or good mother in days. I've phoned it in, I've paid attention to the things that were must do and the rest were simply done on autopilot. At around 6 am yesterday I looked at my phone, glowing beside me with a message. It was my brother. Mom had fallen, 911 had been called and he was five hours away.
That meant my sister in law had three kids to get to school and one mother in law to see to at the hospital. That meant my mother was possibly hurt, or in worse shape than she had been before.
It turned out to be the latter.
I have known for a year that my mother was terminally ill but I had been holding out hope for the miracle of transplant. Even when she didn't want it, I held it as a candle in the darkness of the prospect of a world without my mother. When that hope died, part of me went with it. I didn't know how strongly I was leaning on it until it was gone and then I was lost.
Yesterday she went to the hospital for the visit that wasn't going to end. Hospice was discussed at length until my brother (having hauled ass to get there) was brain weary and mentally beaten. End of Life rules in terms of insurance are tricky and scary things. There are rules for the ending of life, and apparently you don't have to like them.
Mom said no to dialysis when they said she should have some of that. She's done. She doesn't want anything, she wants to go now. Maybe she doesn't want to go so much as she just doesn't want THIS anymore and there isn't anything on Earth left for her EXCEPT this.
After much stress it was arranged that she would actually go to the same facility where Dad is, which is a blessing and a curse. Dad's dementia being what it is, we just weren't sure he could handle it. But it was our only option and part of me was glad they could be together. As crazy as he drove her for 46 years, I hoped that despite that they would find some comfort being together.
Matt did the much dreaded duty of talking to Dad, and telling him what was going on. And then Mom was moved in to be with him - different room but Dad can be there with her.
Somehow in the course of my day yesterday I stopped being mad. Maybe that's not it. Because I AM STILL MAD AS HELL. And I'm soul crushingly sad. But I am not so mad at all the medication that probably caused this. I'm not so mad that none of us realized "fatty liver disease" was going to cause her hell on Earth and that we could've done so much more early if only we had known. We didn't know. I'm not so mad at my Dad for feeding her only fast food when she got too weak to cook for him, the worst possible thing for her to eat with her condition. I'm not so mad at myself for not being there enough. I don't know if I forgive, or if my mad just faded because it's pointless.
Bad things happen to good people. Good things happen to bad people. The universe doesn't play favorites.
I got to talk to both of my parents today. Mom was a little incoherent because of all the stuff building up - end of life with liver failure isn't a coherent place. Yesterday she was seeing cowboys with white hats. I figure that was Gene Autry or Roy Rogers - her favorites. She was also seeing cats. Dad was very nonverbal, a few words. I know that stoic version of my dad, he can't handle what's happening so he has nothing to say.
Today my family got to celebrate my niece's birthday, a bright happy spot in a week that has been anything but. I was glad to see so many smiles on Facebook, so much joy taking place in a house that hasn't been that joyful lately.
I slept in, and woke feeling calm. I didn't wake up and grab my phone in a panic. I guess maybe this is acceptance. I don't accept it, I want to throat punch someone. But maybe, just maybe, moving past the point where you feel like you can't breathe and every single part of your life is burning to the ground, is where acceptance is.
Maybe that's what they mean, it's just the place where you can deal with it in your way.
I don't know what my is yet. I guess I'll find out.
This is about 5 or 6 years ago my Aunt Suzie with my Mom.
Last night for the first night in days I slept hard. I felt drugged but was not. My husband tried to wake me up about a weird smell, but if I HAD to converse about this smell or had there been a fire I could not have done so.
I was wiped out. Mentally, emotionally, and physically empty from the past few days. I haven't been a good wife, good friend, good employee or good mother in days. I've phoned it in, I've paid attention to the things that were must do and the rest were simply done on autopilot.
At around 6 am yesterday I looked at my phone, glowing beside me with a message. It was my brother. Mom had fallen, 911 had been called and he was five hours away.
That meant my sister in law had three kids to get to school and one mother in law to see to at the hospital. That meant my mother was possibly hurt, or in worse shape than she had been before.
It turned out to be the latter.
I have known for a year that my mother was terminally ill but I had been holding out hope for the miracle of transplant. Even when she didn't want it, I held it as a candle in the darkness of the prospect of a world without my mother. When that hope died, part of me went with it. I didn't know how strongly I was leaning on it until it was gone and then I was lost.
Yesterday she went to the hospital for the visit that wasn't going to end. Hospice was discussed at length until my brother (having hauled ass to get there) was brain weary and mentally beaten. End of Life rules in terms of insurance are tricky and scary things. There are rules for the ending of life, and apparently you don't have to like them.
Mom said no to dialysis when they said she should have some of that. She's done. She doesn't want anything, she wants to go now. Maybe she doesn't want to go so much as she just doesn't want THIS anymore and there isn't anything on Earth left for her EXCEPT this.
After much stress it was arranged that she would actually go to the same facility where Dad is, which is a blessing and a curse. Dad's dementia being what it is, we just weren't sure he could handle it. But it was our only option and part of me was glad they could be together. As crazy as he drove her for 46 years, I hoped that despite that they would find some comfort being together.
Matt did the much dreaded duty of talking to Dad, and telling him what was going on. And then Mom was moved in to be with him - different room but Dad can be there with her.
Somehow in the course of my day yesterday I stopped being mad. Maybe that's not it. Because I AM STILL MAD AS HELL. And I'm soul crushingly sad. But I am not so mad at all the medication that probably caused this. I'm not so mad that none of us realized "fatty liver disease" was going to cause her hell on Earth and that we could've done so much more early if only we had known. We didn't know. I'm not so mad at my Dad for feeding her only fast food when she got too weak to cook for him, the worst possible thing for her to eat with her condition. I'm not so mad at myself for not being there enough. I don't know if I forgive, or if my mad just faded because it's pointless.
Bad things happen to good people. Good things happen to bad people. The universe doesn't play favorites.
I got to talk to both of my parents today. Mom was a little incoherent because of all the stuff building up - end of life with liver failure isn't a coherent place. Yesterday she was seeing cowboys with white hats. I figure that was Gene Autry or Roy Rogers - her favorites. She was also seeing cats. Dad was very nonverbal, a few words. I know that stoic version of my dad, he can't handle what's happening so he has nothing to say.
Today my family got to celebrate my niece's birthday, a bright happy spot in a week that has been anything but. I was glad to see so many smiles on Facebook, so much joy taking place in a house that hasn't been that joyful lately.
I slept in, and woke feeling calm. I didn't wake up and grab my phone in a panic. I guess maybe this is acceptance. I don't accept it, I want to throat punch someone. But maybe, just maybe, moving past the point where you feel like you can't breathe and every single part of your life is burning to the ground, is where acceptance is.
Maybe that's what they mean, it's just the place where you can deal with it in your way.
I don't know what my is yet. I guess I'll find out.
This is about 5 or 6 years ago my Aunt Suzie with my Mom.
One year ago today I buried someone who was like a ray of sunshine in the world. She would laugh, and smile and look at everyone with joy. I really liked her, and I know I couldn't have done anything to change the way things went. She wasn't well, and her body decided it had enough.
I was lucky in that I got to say goodbye.
I went to the hospital and was horrified to see the dying person she had become. I smiled as big as I could, and told her how great her hair looked (they had been fiddling with it when I came in) and how glad I was to see her. I knew as I watched her struggling to talk, to stay awake, that I was speaking to her for the last time. It felt surreal, knowing I was choosing the last words I'd ever have with someone. There is a lot of importance in that, those last words. What do you do with them? How do you choose the LAST thing you ever say to someone?
We did her nails, and she whispered "Your makeup." Busted. I had come to visit without my makeup on. It was her pet peeve. She never left the house without full face makeup, and every birthday would give me a new makeup kit from Ulta and remind me "You have such a pretty face! Wear some make up so everyone can see!" She was like my Jewish mother, in fact she was a Jewish mother. You couldn't refuse her anything.
I laughed, and said "I know, I forgot my makeup. I PROMISE I won't forget anymore! Forgive me!"
She smiled, and her painkillers kicked in and she slept.
That's the last thing I ever said to her. I promised to wear my makeup. I've actually done a pretty good job of keeping that one. I wish I had said something more meaningful. I wish my last words had meant something but maybe to her they did. She was really big on me wearing my makeup.
I woke up the next day, after her funeral, and felt like I had put it behind me and was ready to move forward. It was a Monday and a pretty nice day. It was a busy day and a good day.
Shortly after noon, as I ate leftover tacos in the breakroom - I got a messsage saying goodbye forever. Goodbye, forever. Someone I loved a lot had decided they were done with this world. He sent a text message to a few of us, turned off his phone, and blew his brains out.
I know what the last thing I ever said to him (that he heard) was a response to the question "Will I get unemployment do you think?" I answered, "Yeah but you can't live on it. You'll find something. Don't worry."
Yeah, but you can't live on it.
Those words are burned in my brain. You can't live on it.
I said something else, but I don't think it was ever received. I said "STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING RIGHT NOW!"
You don't ever know what the last thing you're going to say to someone is going to be. I'm haunted by both stories, I wish I had said something different in both cases. Nothing would have changed in either case I don't believe. The real ego of it all though, is that those last words are just for me. I'd like to look on myself and say "Yay me I said something meaningful aren't I awesome?" Not like it matters to the dead the last damn thing you say.
I suspect the dead weren't thinking of me at all in either case, as they died.
Last words are haunting me. I'm lost thinking of them, even though they don't matter. Maybe it's just a stage of grief.
Tomorrow those of us who got a text to say goodbye, a short list of friends now bound together by an unspeakable day, we're going to spend some time together. We couldn't really think of anything to do that made sense so I think we're going to lunch or something. I just want to be with them, in a space with them, where we are safe from that day like a shield against the past. We all survived the grief of that day and the days that followed. We survived those moments when no one else would understand our rage, when it was too much to stand and we just went to lunch together and didn't say much of anything.
Today I spent most of my day holding my breath. 6/30/15 is coming. One year. He's been gone one year. I don't know how someone who was as much a part of my life as my elbow can be gone a year, much less forever. But that's the truth of it.
I didn't know how much a part of my life either person was, or the joy they brought me until they were gone. I wish, if nothing else, I had ever told them that.
Chris read this at Chuck's grave. Chuck loved this song.
One year ago today I buried someone who was like a ray of sunshine in the world. She would laugh, and smile and look at everyone with joy. I really liked her, and I know I couldn't have done anything to change the way things went. She wasn't well, and her body decided it had enough.
I was lucky in that I got to say goodbye.
I went to the hospital and was horrified to see the dying person she had become. I smiled as big as I could, and told her how great her hair looked (they had been fiddling with it when I came in) and how glad I was to see her. I knew as I watched her struggling to talk, to stay awake, that I was speaking to her for the last time. It felt surreal, knowing I was choosing the last words I'd ever have with someone. There is a lot of importance in that, those last words. What do you do with them? How do you choose the LAST thing you ever say to someone?
We did her nails, and she whispered "Your makeup." Busted. I had come to visit without my makeup on. It was her pet peeve. She never left the house without full face makeup, and every birthday would give me a new makeup kit from Ulta and remind me "You have such a pretty face! Wear some make up so everyone can see!" She was like my Jewish mother, in fact she was a Jewish mother. You couldn't refuse her anything.
I laughed, and said "I know, I forgot my makeup. I PROMISE I won't forget anymore! Forgive me!"
She smiled, and her painkillers kicked in and she slept.
That's the last thing I ever said to her. I promised to wear my makeup. I've actually done a pretty good job of keeping that one. I wish I had said something more meaningful. I wish my last words had meant something but maybe to her they did. She was really big on me wearing my makeup.
I woke up the next day, after her funeral, and felt like I had put it behind me and was ready to move forward. It was a Monday and a pretty nice day. It was a busy day and a good day.
Shortly after noon, as I ate leftover tacos in the breakroom - I got a messsage saying goodbye forever. Goodbye, forever. Someone I loved a lot had decided they were done with this world. He sent a text message to a few of us, turned off his phone, and blew his brains out.
I know what the last thing I ever said to him (that he heard) was a response to the question "Will I get unemployment do you think?" I answered, "Yeah but you can't live on it. You'll find something. Don't worry."
Yeah, but you can't live on it.
Those words are burned in my brain. You can't live on it.
I said something else, but I don't think it was ever received. I said "STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING RIGHT NOW!"
You don't ever know what the last thing you're going to say to someone is going to be. I'm haunted by both stories, I wish I had said something different in both cases. Nothing would have changed in either case I don't believe. The real ego of it all though, is that those last words are just for me. I'd like to look on myself and say "Yay me I said something meaningful aren't I awesome?" Not like it matters to the dead the last damn thing you say.
I suspect the dead weren't thinking of me at all in either case, as they died.
Last words are haunting me. I'm lost thinking of them, even though they don't matter. Maybe it's just a stage of grief.
Tomorrow those of us who got a text to say goodbye, a short list of friends now bound together by an unspeakable day, we're going to spend some time together. We couldn't really think of anything to do that made sense so I think we're going to lunch or something. I just want to be with them, in a space with them, where we are safe from that day like a shield against the past. We all survived the grief of that day and the days that followed. We survived those moments when no one else would understand our rage, when it was too much to stand and we just went to lunch together and didn't say much of anything.
Today I spent most of my day holding my breath. 6/30/15 is coming. One year. He's been gone one year. I don't know how someone who was as much a part of my life as my elbow can be gone a year, much less forever. But that's the truth of it.
I didn't know how much a part of my life either person was, or the joy they brought me until they were gone. I wish, if nothing else, I had ever told them that.
Chris read this at Chuck's grave. Chuck loved this song.
Five months and 22 days ago five people got a text from someone we all loved very much. It was to say goodbye to us, as he had decided he was done with this particular existence. It was probably the most horrible message I've ever received. I know he didn't mean it that way, but it was.
I haven't known what to do with it for all of these months. Sometimes I go back and read it, reading through it again and again. I end up back in the heat and pain of that day when I do this. I feel the helplessness of waiting and the dark clouds gather while I wait for the inevitable conclusion. Sometimes I ignore it, pretending it isn't there, silently willing it to go away.
I couldn't bring myself to delete it all of these months. It felt wrong, someone loved me enough to say goodbye and the only real and true final goodbye I hope to ever get. I didn't want to cut that communication. In reality though, that was already cut and I knew it. Just having it in my phone felt both like a connection and a curse though.
Yesterday while I was dumping bad photos and text messages etc to clear space in my phone, I suddenly realized all of my text messages were gone. Chuck's message was gone. I had deleted Chuck's last message. I sat there stunned. How did I just do that? What just happened?
He had written us to say goodbye, and wrote briefly to us about what we meant to him. He told us where to find him. He told us the backdoor would be unlocked. I remember that part because when I saw it that was when I realized we weren't going back from this situation, even as I said it aloud so the police could be told I remember how it felt hearing those words. It seemed more final to me than him saying where his body was. He told us a lot of things in the short space of a text message, hit send, turned off his phone and pulled the trigger. He left the back door unlocked so they wouldn't damage the door getting in. He was thoughtful like that.
All those words are now gone from my life and I realized I was grateful. I was relieved. Then I felt guilty for even feeling like that for a moment. I texted another recipient of the same message: I just accidentally deleted Chuck's goodbye text. I don't know how I feel about that. His response: Consider it Merry Christmas to yourself. I'm going to do that. Chuck would say "You gotta let that go, you can't dwell on that stuff." I can hear him say it. So I'm going to do that. I'm going to let that go. I'm not going to feel guilty for finally closing the door on that day.
He also left us all a song. It was three months before I could listen to it. I finally did listen to it one day while stuck in traffic on i85. When I listen to it I know we carried out his wishes and that's the best friends we could possibly have been to him. That's going to have to be good enough.
This is the song. You don't have to listen. I'm putting here like a marker. He's resting high on his mountain, as requested. That's the best we could do. Tweet
Five months and 22 days ago five people got a text from someone we all loved very much. It was to say goodbye to us, as he had decided he was done with this particular existence. It was probably the most horrible message I've ever received. I know he didn't mean it that way, but it was.
I haven't known what to do with it for all of these months. Sometimes I go back and read it, reading through it again and again. I end up back in the heat and pain of that day when I do this. I feel the helplessness of waiting and the dark clouds gather while I wait for the inevitable conclusion. Sometimes I ignore it, pretending it isn't there, silently willing it to go away.
I couldn't bring myself to delete it all of these months. It felt wrong, someone loved me enough to say goodbye and the only real and true final goodbye I hope to ever get. I didn't want to cut that communication. In reality though, that was already cut and I knew it. Just having it in my phone felt both like a connection and a curse though.
Yesterday while I was dumping bad photos and text messages etc to clear space in my phone, I suddenly realized all of my text messages were gone. Chuck's message was gone. I had deleted Chuck's last message. I sat there stunned. How did I just do that? What just happened?
He had written us to say goodbye, and wrote briefly to us about what we meant to him. He told us where to find him. He told us the backdoor would be unlocked. I remember that part because when I saw it that was when I realized we weren't going back from this situation, even as I said it aloud so the police could be told I remember how it felt hearing those words. It seemed more final to me than him saying where his body was. He told us a lot of things in the short space of a text message, hit send, turned off his phone and pulled the trigger. He left the back door unlocked so they wouldn't damage the door getting in. He was thoughtful like that.
All those words are now gone from my life and I realized I was grateful. I was relieved. Then I felt guilty for even feeling like that for a moment. I texted another recipient of the same message: I just accidentally deleted Chuck's goodbye text. I don't know how I feel about that.
His response: Consider it Merry Christmas to yourself.
I'm going to do that. Chuck would say "You gotta let that go, you can't dwell on that stuff." I can hear him say it. So I'm going to do that. I'm going to let that go. I'm not going to feel guilty for finally closing the door on that day.
He also left us all a song. It was three months before I could listen to it. I finally did listen to it one day while stuck in traffic on i85. When I listen to it I know we carried out his wishes and that's the best friends we could possibly have been to him. That's going to have to be good enough.
This is the song. You don't have to listen. I'm putting here like a marker.
He's resting high on his mountain, as requested. That's the best we could do. Tweet
Middle School brings new things, such as the International Night Fashion Show and Cake Walk. To say that this even was "under billed" might be a huge over statement. The boy and I went, and the first clue was that the parking lot was packed.
The entire center of the school was ringed with tables themed to various countries, with crafts, and foods that were free, or a nominal fee to try.
I love school events. Wandering the halls, watching all the kids act crazy, or behave quite well. I love how they're all learning and growing, these boys that I've watched since they were 5 and 6.
And it's probably ego but it makes me feel good to do this simple stuff with him, just to watch his wonder and excitement. Above, he's making a paper flower for his little sister. The girl manning the station? No idea how to make them. Luckily, I was a girl scout and making paper flowers was a requirement :) .
While we wandered and tasted and made crafts, my mind went to a friend of mine who just died.
She was my friend while I was trying to get pregnant. She was my friend who was the self appointed expert on all things motherhood. A lot of things I find myself gravitating to as important, are things she used to say over and over. Her kids were her WORLD. SCHOOL IS THEIR JOB she would say. YOU HAVE TO BE INVOLVED IN EVERYTHING THEY DO, she would say. She helped me find the best pediatrician.
I didn't think she was a perfect mom, but I thought she was a good mom. As a friend, she was definitely someone whose opinion and values mattered to me. I listened to her, and believed in so much of what she said.
So there I was at international night, tasting chicken satay, and laughing as my son played the various instruments with his friends, blinking back my tears.
In the course of 12 years, 11 I have been gone from there, my friend drank herself to death. Her alcoholism existed even when I knew her, but I never perceived it. She was good at pretending she didn't have a problem - for a while.
I find it unthinkable, that someone whose world revolved around her kids, could change into someone whose world revolved around booze. But that's how powerful it is. She couldn't even stop for all the things she believed in, all the things she loved.
I know that the bubbly, bossy girl Michele and I were friends with hasn't existed in a long time. She changed as the demon took hold of her and turned her into someone else. So I guess I can't mourn the person I knew suddenly dying, as that person hasn't been around in years and years.
But I regret the loss to her children, of the woman I knew. Do they even remember her, and her passion for them? Do they know how they were EVERYTHING to her? The mom who did crafts and participated at school, vs. being a sick drunk prone to rage - do they remember? God I hope they do. I do.
I mourn the loss of hope, of future, for her. I regret the missed chances, the grandchildren, the firsts she won't get to see now. I mourn the girl who I knew, being lost in the bottom of a bottle.
This is how I will remember her. Round cheeked, smiling, and with bigger hair than was actually appropriate for the decade. I saw another picture of her online, thin, bony, sharp featured. I don't know that girl.This is the girl I know.
Middle School brings new things, such as the International Night Fashion Show and Cake Walk. To say that this even was "under billed" might be a huge over statement. The boy and I went, and the first clue was that the parking lot was packed.
The entire center of the school was ringed with tables themed to various countries, with crafts, and foods that were free, or a nominal fee to try.
I love school events. Wandering the halls, watching all the kids act crazy, or behave quite well. I love how they're all learning and growing, these boys that I've watched since they were 5 and 6.
And it's probably ego but it makes me feel good to do this simple stuff with him, just to watch his wonder and excitement. Above, he's making a paper flower for his little sister. The girl manning the station? No idea how to make them. Luckily, I was a girl scout and making paper flowers was a requirement :) .
While we wandered and tasted and made crafts, my mind went to a friend of mine who just died.
She was my friend while I was trying to get pregnant. She was my friend who was the self appointed expert on all things motherhood. A lot of things I find myself gravitating to as important, are things she used to say over and over. Her kids were her WORLD. SCHOOL IS THEIR JOB she would say. YOU HAVE TO BE INVOLVED IN EVERYTHING THEY DO, she would say. She helped me find the best pediatrician.
I didn't think she was a perfect mom, but I thought she was a good mom. As a friend, she was definitely someone whose opinion and values mattered to me. I listened to her, and believed in so much of what she said.
So there I was at international night, tasting chicken satay, and laughing as my son played the various instruments with his friends, blinking back my tears.
In the course of 12 years, 11 I have been gone from there, my friend drank herself to death. Her alcoholism existed even when I knew her, but I never perceived it. She was good at pretending she didn't have a problem - for a while.
I find it unthinkable, that someone whose world revolved around her kids, could change into someone whose world revolved around booze. But that's how powerful it is. She couldn't even stop for all the things she believed in, all the things she loved.
I know that the bubbly, bossy girl Michele and I were friends with hasn't existed in a long time. She changed as the demon took hold of her and turned her into someone else. So I guess I can't mourn the person I knew suddenly dying, as that person hasn't been around in years and years.
But I regret the loss to her children, of the woman I knew. Do they even remember her, and her passion for them? Do they know how they were EVERYTHING to her? The mom who did crafts and participated at school, vs. being a sick drunk prone to rage - do they remember? God I hope they do. I do.
I mourn the loss of hope, of future, for her. I regret the missed chances, the grandchildren, the firsts she won't get to see now. I mourn the girl who I knew, being lost in the bottom of a bottle.
This is how I will remember her. Round cheeked, smiling, and with bigger hair than was actually appropriate for the decade. I saw another picture of her online, thin, bony, sharp featured. I don't know that girl.This is the girl I know.
The girl child still asks why. WHY? WHY everything. None of the boys ever did this. Perhaps Louis wasn't that interested, I don't know. The twins for obvious reasons. Why isn't a word they conceive. Everything is or is not, without reason, from what I can tell.
But the girl. WHY? WHY she asks. Why do you drink this coffee? Why did you get my yogurt (you asked for it). Why did you get this shirt? Why is your hair long? Why is this show on? Why do we have milk? Why is there chocolate? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why is this a helmet? Why is this a tv?
I don't ask why, but it doesn't trouble me that she does.
I figured out a long time ago, that asking WHY is asking for heart ache, a lot of the time.
There isn't really a why because some things just happen because they do.
In the course of 24 hours, my mother was rushed to the hospital in serious condition, my grandfather began the process of dying, and my cat died.
Why?
Well it could be because I'm being tested. But I'm pretty sure I'm not JOB and I'm also NOT religious and let's take it one step further, if I were, I'd be a pretty arrogant ass to presume my deity had time to test me.
No, I'm not being tested. This past weekend was a big old heaping dose of the thing called life. Maybe life itself is the test. I freely admit I cried a lot and probably failed a lot. But I realized while out Christmas shopping that it didn't matter if every single thing in my life exploded at once, I had to put one foot in front of the other and keep going. Life isn't convenient and it doesn't work on a schedule that coincides with my sleep and work plans.
Time passed. We played Chutes and ladders, and had a tea party, and made hot chocolate. My husband buried the cat in the pouring rain today. There were tears. A lot.
My mom is getting better 48 hours later. My grandfather is still leaving us slowly, but in his own time.
Why? Because those things are also life. My mom got a good medical team, so we move forward with progress. My grandfather is strong and didn't go as quickly as they thought.
I was angry at the universe for these helpings of tears and worry coinciding at such an close interval, until I got my mind around the idea that no one ever gets sick or dies when it's convenient. Babies also tend to come when it suits them, so there is some cosmic symmetry there.
My son cried copiously when he realized Chilli's stocking is still hanging, and wondered what we should do with it. The girl cried because Chilli can't be her best friend anymore. They both crawled into bed with me and cried last night until they were quiet.
When it was quiet, and they were both sleeping snuggled against me, I laid there and cried too.
