everyday

When Grief Knocks Softly

Posted on August 26, 2021 by Cancer Death everyday Grief Growth Healing Home Loss Love Mothers Moving Forward Uncategorized 1

Thoughts on loss and my mother on the anniversary of her death.

There has been so much collective grief and loss this past year and a half. Today I sit with my personal grief and remember my mother as she passed away 7 years ago today.

Her voice in my mind isn’t as strong, but it’s still so close. To all of you who have felt grief or loss, be it the death of a family member, partner, friend, or even bff pet, I hope you also feel them with you. Death is inevitable, as I wrote the day before my mom died, but sometimes it really feels unfair when someone we love gets taken sooner than we think they should.

I feel that pain with you today. I feel the anger of missing out on tons of opportunities, to travel, to talk, to get and give advice, a hug, to laugh, or even argue, just to be together, the joy we could have kept sharing.

I also feel the deep appreciation for love that was here, that was felt, that is in me and will live on and on and on.

This date is always really hard…but it is also really good. I love moments that bring me closer to my mom again, and today I feel close to our communal human experience as well.

I am thinking of you out there, in your pain, joy, and memory.

I hope this last journal I wrote the day before my mom died can somehow connect with you and help you feel what you need to feel.

I love you friend, stranger. And I’m glad that you are alive here with me today.

August 25th, 2014

Today was hard, beautiful, overwhelming sad, hopeful, tiring, peaceful.  So much in one day.

I’m thankful that my mom is still here. I don’t want to go forward to a future where she’s not…but it’s all starting to be a little less impossible…and with that I feel a little bit more like the world is going to be okay, even after.

My mom lost her ability to communicate now, almost totally.  She did turn into me when I snuggled up in the bed though, and then held her hand on my leg and then in my hand.

She’s there, she’s just also very far away.

So many people to make sure that they know, so many people to call.  I would hate for someone to be taken by surprise after she’s gone…but it might happen.  It’s just so fast, a few extra days of slowing would be nice to sit, and grieve, smile, even laugh, and do lots of crying.

Which I have to say I will be ready to be done with.  The crying just comes so easy sometimes, but I’m exhausted and don’t want to be sad for the rest of my life.

But, it has been a good one up until now hasn’t it.  And she has gone through it like a blazing star.  So bright you can’t be near her and not be affected by her joy and her positive spirit.  

And this is today.  And if we focus on this moment now it is all a bit easier to bare.  

And death is inevitable.  And we go bravely into the dying of the light.  And we except that it is. And we grieve and we live, always remembering, always carrying her with us.

I carry you with me–i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)

And sitting here, next to you with the family…I think you know that.  I think you know that you are still here with us, and you will always be.

100 Blankets

Posted on August 26, 2018 by everyday Grief Growth Healing Love Partners 3

Today is 4 years since my mom’s body stopped working.

A lot of time has passed and my family and I carry on now pretty well.  We laugh and take trips.  My dad is doing well learning how to move on, my brother is growing in his independence (my mom would be so proud!), and I’m learning how to create again.  Maybe I will keep writing even though I chose to back away from it for a bit.  My mom always loved to see what I would create.  I think I may just keep sharing what words are in me.  So many of them are because of her.

Of course today has had it’s hard and painful moments, but it also was my last day of summer before I start teaching again.  It was a day at the beach with 3 people I love.  It was breezes, iced lattes, and a good new book.  It was belly laughter about the difference between hotdish and casserole and feeling my partners arms around me in the waves of the ocean.  It really was a beautiful day.

She taught me to appreciate these moments.  She told me not to find wealth in material, but to see richness in friends, art, and optimism.  She taught me to be grateful.

Today I am so grateful for the love and memories I have of her.  And, I’m grateful for a world of  “family, friends, even strangers who are willing to love.”

This journal entry from 2 days before my mom died really stuck out to me today.  I wanted to share it tonight.

August 24th, 2014

And I’m back here again, ready to write.

The sad story of a mother who’s dying and a world that has loved her so much.

My aunt says today how she didn’t want her picture with my mom because she doesn’t want to remember her like this…  I want to remember it all.  

I want to sit in bed with her and see her smile when I ask if she wants to cuddle.  I want to wait for that lucid moment when I know she’s listening to us talk around her.  I want to do my best to walk her to the bathroom, move her body for her when her mind says get up and her muscles just stay like jelly. I want to be here, helping her with it all, because she is alive and I love her.

Not that it’s not the most difficult thing ever…it is.  But maybe it’s a part of the healing process already, doing everything I can to take care of her through it all.  She cared for me as a screaming, incapable baby; how could a part of me not be happy to take care of her as a dying adult.

I love her so much.  The pain is too strong because of that…but people bring in so much joy everyday.  Flowers, talks with friends, and friends, and friends, time together, feeling emotions, holding hands.  It is both true that there is so much beauty still in this world, and that the world feels heavy, dark, and gray.

So ending today with a reminder…not to do any last minute relationship building that guilt could whisper will make it better,  (We’ve done it; we’ve had an amazing relationship, and although we did not do all things we sure did a lot and should feel content with a close, loving mother-daughter relationship.) but to take it day by day.  Do not be concerned about tomorrow, tomorrow will worry about itself.  Instead fix your mind on now, and the love that you hold in each moment.

Because I think I’m realizing that even when she leaves there will always be love.  I will miss her and be so sad to not share things with her, but I will not be naked, in a world without connections.  I will be surrounded the the 100 blankets of family, friends, even strangers who are willing to love.

She taught me that it was out there, and I will remember it even when she is gone.

I love you now as much as yesterday

Posted on January 22, 2017 by Birthdays everyday Grief Growth Healing Home Loss Love Mothers Moving Forward 5

Today is my mom’s birthday and I have to count to remember that she would have been 64 today.  I’m sure my dad has thought a time or two about Paul McCartney’s song “64” and that McCartney wasn’t with his first wife at that age either, although their separation was for much different reasons.

 

My mom would have sang it to my dad and they would have laughed and smiled together.

 

But most days I’m not dwelling on what it would’ve been like to have my mom with me anymore.  Most of the days I’m just enjoying my job at a high school that lets me get to know students instead of just teach them.  I’m settling into our new old house that my mother almost feels a part of because I know she would have loved all the intricate parts.  She would talk about the stained glass windows, wood floors and mantle pieces, and how “they just don’t make houses like they used to.” I’m appreciating time with Brandon and how he is such a perfect match for me.  This year for my birthday he made me feel so special with secret gifts and guests, just like my mom always used to.  I’ve been realizing that he helps make missing her less painful because he has so many parts of her personality in him.  Most days I’m getting to focus on building stronger relationships with my dad and brother.  There’s always a bright side that you can find in tragedy (something my mother taught all of us).  I’ve found a real relationship with my dad and a renewed closeness with my brother. Those things would make my mom so happy.  It makes it all better to know she would be so proud of all of us.

 

Most days now I don’t cry when I think of her.  Most times when I’m telling stories I’m laughing and happy to remember.  I feel grateful that so many people that I’ve met after my mom died have told me that they feel like they’ve met her just from the stories and pictures I’ve shown them.   It’s an honor to carry on her stories, to continue her legacy of optimism.

 

So, today when I feel sadness and grief come back I welcome them.  Grief no longer overwhelms me; now it reminds me of the gift that my mother was to all of us.

 

It’s a strange thing– this moving on and living life.  Sometimes I fear that as life continues I’m walking further and further away from the memories of my mother.  But today as I celebrate her I know that I don’t have to worry about losing her in that way.  I hear her voice through my brother when he tells me that mom would be proud of me for standing up for what I believe in, and for working to educate and elevate those experiencing poverty and oppression.  I feel her in the hugs from friends and coworkers who probably don’t even know that they remind me of my mother when they give that good squeeze.  I see her in my own blue hair that I wouldn’t have had the guts to get if I wasn’t able to tell myself, “my mom would LOVE this!”  And I hear her again and again in my head telling me she loves me.

 

Happy birthday mom.  I love you now as much as yesterday, and I always will.

 

 

Pretend Tomorrow Is from Me

Posted on April 24, 2016 by Birthdays everyday Gifts Grief Healing Loss Love Mothers Moving Forward Uncategorized 1

 

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These past days (weeks, months?) I’ve been so caught up in a job and driving places and sharing in wonderful and major life events.  It’s been like a giant train speeding ahead and all I can do is look forward.

 

And there my mother’s ashes sit of the shelf.  Static. Cold. Still permanent.

 

This morning I woke up to the rain dropping through the leaves in my back yard.  I think of my mother. I think of the new house I just bought.  I talk about the first joint checking account I will open with someone.  I talk about all the weddings I’ve been to and that they were just the right kind of love.  I talk about you, and how I wish we could talk.

 

Last summer I got to write and grieve and write and grieve.   It was a fevered sort of peace that let me process and had me desperate to hold onto you.

Then I took a job, and it has turned out to be heavy, and distracting, and full of its own consuming challenges.  I can’t stop because the job won’t let me, because I love these little kids, because public education in the city of Philadelphia is a joke compared to what it should be and it tears my heart everyday that I can’t make it better.

 

You, there on the shelf, are you still a part of this struggle with me?

 

She comes back to me in waves while I’m moving through stress and joy and moments.

You still guide me when I feel like a failure and I need someone to tell me that they love me, that I can do anything, that there’s no reason to question myself because of course you know I can.

 

You are still there in pockets of my every day.

But I want to write you in permanently.  I want to welcome you back through the words of your story.  I want to remember you always:  not just in the tattoo I want to get or a picture that shows your smile.

 

Sometime in 2014 you sent me a card that says on the front:  “Every day is a gift” and in the middle:  “Pretend tomorrow is from me.”  You crossed out the part below that said “Happy Birthday” and wrote “Happy You are Loved day.”

 

Every day is a gift from you, mom. I miss you and I’ll never forget.

 

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i carry your heart with me(I carry it in my heart)

 

I am Elizabeth--spelled with a Betsy.
I am a daughter, writer, maker, educator, change maker, and creator. I carry my mother's audacity for life with me and let it fuel my love, creativity, and joy. Carol's song lives on in bright colors, long hugs, fresh air, and loud laughter. I remember her here and reflect on grief, love, and what it means to keep living after a loss. - - - i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart).

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