Mothers

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.

A Toast to Carol–Celebrating Love and Family 5 Years Later

Posted on August 15, 2019 by Celebration of Love and Family Grief Growth Healing Love Mothers 2

Five years ago Brandon and I gathered with each other for a Celebration of Love and Family.  We knew that my mother was dying and wanted to have this special moment with her.  It wasn’t a wedding–it was a lot more (and less) than that.  It was our own thing and I’m so glad that it happened–I’m so glad to celebrate, cry, remember, and share about it today.

My mother had told our family that if there was any other city where she would like to have lived it would be Coeur D’Alene, Idaho–so that’s where my dad Joel, brother Jon, partner Brandon, and I met to celebrate 5 years after our celebration and 5 years since we mother died.  Today we toasted to the memory of my mom and to each other. We gathered together again to celebrate our love and our family–5 glasses of wine (1 for her and each of us), her ashes, and shared readings from our Celebration Ceremony.  After laughing, crying, and drinking our wine–with a word of gratitude we threw her glass out into the lake.  I think she would enjoy it out there.

 

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My mother loved to share, loved love, and loved to bring everyone into the family.  Please, today, if you want to add your own words of celebration of love and family I know it would honor my mother and it will bring us all joy to hear it.  Below I’ve shared my own written celebration of love for my mom and for Brandon that I read at our ceremony. 

——–

To my dear mom Carol and to my partner Brandon:

Mom,

When I think about today in my mind it’s actually about you.  I couldn’t be happier to share a part of my life with you and I couldn’t be happier for you to have a significant moment in your own life of dedicating you daughter to someone she loves.  

 

When I look to the future I usually want to stop looking–but the strong part of me that knows I will go on knows I will always have you with me. See, because you are so much a part of me: you are a part of how I see the world, you are part of when I laugh, you are a part of why I’m nice to people, and you are a part of why I plan parties when I know something terrible is going to happen.

 

And, you are a part of why I’m with Brandon.  You always told me I deserved the best, in fact you kind of gave me a complex 🤔 But lots of good came out of it too because you encouraged me to be with someone who had the capability to grow, to be adventurous with me, to challenge me, and to love me back…and Brandon is all of those things.

 

Mom, It’s hard for me to think about loving anyone more than I love you.  You are my mother; you have been my best friend.  I talk to you when I’m sad, when I’m happy, when I’m angry.  You where one of the only people I went to when I had no idea how to feel, what to do, or even how to say it.  And you have ALWAYS been there for me.  Always.  Every phone call, every late night.  

But now, Brandon is that too.

 

And I know when that day comes that I do have to say goodbye, that the passing will be a bit easier because he’s going to be here with me. He’s going to sit with me, hold me, listen to me, and be so many of those things that you’ve been for me. 

 

I love you and I couldn’t be happier to share this day with you.

 

Brandon,

I told you last night that I don’t like to be raw with my feelings about love in front of other people, but I realized that’s actually a lie–I just need to write it down and then I’m a waterfall of affection.  So, let me shower on you for a little bit.

I don’t know what I’d do or what state I’d be in without you.  When I feel like I need to be a rock for everyone you let me be weak and still know that I have strength.  You listen to me, you encourage me, you motivate me to be the kind of person I aspire to be, and you change.

 

And that’ something that’s made me want to, and be happy to, stay.  You’re willing to try the uncomfortable emotions, the scary new environments, the challenging situations.  That’s how I want to live my life, so it’s nice that we an do it together.

 

There’s actually quite a few things I like about the way you live:

 

You’re not perfect, and I love that about you.

You are so fun–you get drunk with me and you’ll stay up past midnight.

You finally learned how to argue with me and now you can’t stop. 😋

But, when we do argue you always try to hear my side, to understand where I’m coming from,, and you respect me even if you think I’m so totally wrong.

You’re now a push-over–I need someone who’s just as stubborn as me.

You don’t give up. You believe in having dreams.  You go after them and then dream even bigger.

You make me feel safe, so loved, and beautiful.

You are okay without me…but damn does it feel good to have you want me by your side.  

You make me watch shooting stars with you, you go camping with me, you keep trying new things.

You laugh at me, with me, and make me laugh sometimes too.

You want to travel the world and help as much as you can along the way.

 

So, no matter what happens, whether we stay together for our whole lives or the opposite, I know that I love who you are and I’m so happy for the things we get to share together.

 

Brandon, you are me rock and my wings, my lightness and my weight.

Let’s keep doing the impossible together.

 

Sending love and joy out to you all today.  Thank you for all the ways you’ve touched our lives and the ways you continue to honor and carry on Carol’s memory.

 

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.

 

 

Fireworks on the 4th

Posted on July 4, 2016 by Fargo Holidays Home Love Mothers Uncategorized 3

Not only did my mother love fireworks, she also loved to try and capture a good one with a photo. Usually they are pretty elusive, but my mom got a pretty good one in this shot here.

Not only did my mother love fireworks, she also loved to try and capture them with a photo. Usually they were pretty elusive, but she got a good one in this shot.

Two years ago today my mom sat in her wheel chair at MSUM’s Nemzek field.  A yearly ritual, we would park nearby, walk up to the stands, listen to the cover band play old American classics and wait for the lights to dim.  Once it was fully dark we would see the first reload shoot up with a “thwump”, a swirling smoke stream left in its wake, and then the first “pop” and “ahh” would echo the stands.  My mom was usually the loudest to “ooo” and “ahh”; sometimes a pop would sparkle so impressively she would start to clap.  She always remembered to tell us that the “palm tree” ones were her favorite—an opinion that I shared either because of her immense proselytization of their beauty and “awesomeness” or just because they really are the best and most awesome—I’ll never really be sure.

 

Two years ago was different though.  This time we sat on the side because my mother would never be able to make it up the steps of the bleachers.  We brought her walker/wheelchair and parked in the handicap spots about 100 meters from where we plopped our chairs on the grass.  It was still a great view and you could hear the music off the side of the bleachers.   My mother had wanted to go and had rallied a significant amount of energy just to make it to this unorthodox spot.  We talked about small things that I can’t remember much until the fireworks began. After the first pop or two it wasn’t an “ooo” and “ahh” that I heard, but a remark filled with knowledge and sadness, “I just keep thinking—long pause—that these are the last fireworks that I’ll see.”

 

And right away I quipped back with a, “You don’t know that mom.  You might be able to see them next year.  Things could get better like they have before!” But, she did know and had grasped something remarkable that few of us get to experience.

 

What would it be like to see fireworks with eyes that knew they were the last you’d ever see?  What would it be like to be aware that it was the end?  Even in old age it’s rare to know exactly when you’re going to go.  How good and bad and overwhelming and peaceful would it feel to get to say goodbye to someone with finality?

 

My mother, in her brown wig with highlights and her uncomfortable walker/wheelchair sitting outside the Moorhead football field, knowing this would be it; “ooo” and “ahh” she continued after we both let the comments be forgotten.  “These palm tree ones are my favorite.  I always love the way they sparkle.”

 

Me too mom.  And I still do.

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)

 

“Getting Better” or How Grief Lets You Grow (even when you don’t want to)

Posted on February 1, 2016 by Birthdays Cancer Grief Growth Healing Loss Mothers Uncategorized 0
Time is hard, and time is healing.

 

Mom, I’ve been doing so much better.  I can talk about you and feel pride and love instead of pain. I can go out and enjoy time with friends and not feel overwhelmed with thoughts of retreating into the corner to be alone.  I can think about the future and feel good about moving forward without being afraid to go anywhere without you.   I’m healing. I’m moving. Which is so scary mom, because it’s still away from you.

 

I think about you in every major decision, whenever someone is in pain, whenever someone is proud of me, or I hurt, or my life changes–you are a part of my future, even if I can’t tell you about it.

 

Today, sitting in a coffee shop with a good friend, I think about how you would laugh with me at the barbie doll girls sitting next to me, brood with me over the rudeness I felt when someone questioned my intelligence because I’m female, and cry with me when the house I was so excited about slipped through our fingers.

 

And because I can still remember you and feel you, it’s like you are sharing these things with me.  I still fear that I’ll keep forgetting you, that time will erode away the strength of my sense of you.  Will I be able to remember your scent, you hugs, the details of your smile and love 30 years from now?

 

Time is hard…and time is healing.

 

Grief has a way of making you change and develop even when you don’t want to, maybe especially when you don’t want to.

 

I can cry now. I couldn’t for about 5 years, unless it was about losing you.

 

I would never wish for this, but now that it is a part of me I will not begrudge it either.

 

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A happy memory: My 27th birthday, the last I got to share with my mom. I’m thankful to be able to look back at this and smile. We shared so much love and fun!

—–

 

When I came across this list from americanhospice.org it rang true for me.  I was happy to feel that I have been healing.  I know my mom would be proud of me to know that I am growing on and growing stronger.

 

I hope that others can feel resonance with the progress of this list.  Maybe you feel some of these changes happening in you after you’ve felt pain or loss.  Maybe you haven’t yet, but you will.

 

As we all move forward through the complications of life, filled with loss and joy, I hope time can continue to bring growth.  Time is hard, but time is healing. Time is hard, but time is growth. Time is hard, but time is life–and she would want us to live it well.

 

You Know You Are Getting Better When…

By Helen Fitzgerald, CT

The progress through grief is so slow, and so often of a “one step forward and two steps backwards” motion, that it is difficult to see signs of improvement. The following are clues that will help you to see that you are beginning to work through your grief:

  • You are in touch with the finality of the death. You now know in your heart that your loved one is truly gone and will never return to this earth.
  • You can review both pleasant and unpleasant memories. In early grief, memories are painful because they remind you of how much you have lost. Now it feels good to remember, and you look for people to share memories with.
  • You can enjoy time alone and feel comfortable. You no longer need to have someone with you all the time or look for activities to keep you distracted.
  • You can drive somewhere by yourself without crying the whole time. Driving seems to be a place where many people cry, which can be dangerous for you and other drivers.
  • You are less sensitive to some of the comments people make. You realize that painful comments made by family or friends are made in ignorance.
  • You look forward to holidays. Once dreaded occasions can now be anticipated with excitement, perhaps through returning to old traditions or creating new ones.
  • You can reach out to help someone else in a similar situation. It is healing to be able to use your experience to help others.
  • The music you shared with the one you lost is no longer painful to hear. Now, you may even find it comforting.
  • You can sit through a church service without crying.
  • Some time passes in which you have not thought of your loved one. When this first happens, you may panic, thinking, “I am forgetting.” This is not true. You will never forget. You are giving yourself permission to go on with your life and your loved one would want you to do this.
  • You can enjoy a good joke and have a good laugh without feeling guilty.
  • Your eating, sleeping, and exercise patterns return to what they were beforehand.
  • You no longer feel tired all the time.
  • You have developed a routine or a new schedule in your daily life that does not include your loved one.
  • You can concentrate on a book or favorite television program. You can even retain information you have just read or viewed.
  • You no longer have to make daily or weekly trips to the cemetery. You now feel comfortable going once a month or only on holidays or other special occasions.
  • You can find something to be thankful for. You always knew there were good things going on in your life, but they didn’t matter much before.
  • You can establish new and healthy relationships. New friends are now part of your life and you enjoy participating in activities with them.
  • You feel confident again. You are in touch with your new identity and have a stronger sense of what you are going to do with the rest of your life.
  • You can organize and plan your future.
  • You can accept things as they are and not keep trying to return things to what they were.
  • You have patience with yourself through “grief attacks.” You know they are becoming further apart and less frightening and painful.
  • You look forward to getting up in the morning.
  • You stop to smell the flowers along the way and enjoy experiences in life that are meant to be enjoyed.
  • The vacated roles that your loved one filled in your life are now being filled by yourself or others. When a loved one dies he or she leaves many “holes” in your life. Now those holes are being filled with other people and activities, although some will remain empty. You are more at ease with these changes.
  • You can take the energy and time spent thinking about your loss and put those energies elsewhere, perhaps by helping others in similar situations or making concrete plans with your own life.

You acknowledge your new life and even discover personal growth from experiencing grief.

 

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

The Two Home Syndrome

Posted on January 17, 2016 by Fargo Home Mothers Philadelphia 3

Sometimes I tell people I have two homes:  one, a city, and the other, a family.  I never wanted to move back to Fargo; it makes me feel like my mind is in a box and I should marry my high school sweetheart and settle down with 2 and a half kids.  To my mother, it is a happy place, a place full of friends and love and smiles.

 

My mother moved to Fargo with her family in the 8th grade from Deerlodge Montana. She talked with me about how she made a small group of girlfriends that would laugh and be silly with each other; inciting the reprimand of a few teachers more than once (I did that too!).  She kept these same girlfriends through high school and even into college, as she stayed in Fargo to double major in Early Childhood Development and Chiropractic at NDSU, living at her parents’ place for the most of it.  It wasn’t until she was 22 that she left the city in order to attend Northwestern Chiropractic College in Minneapolis.

And then, my parents moved back here; a newly married couple wanting to start their dual practice.  It made perfect sense to move back to this quieter community, buy the practice and the house from her dad, and start the set up of a little family, a little office, and a little home.

Although she thought of other places (my dad tells me at age 26 she dreamed of moving to the breathe-taking Coeur d’Alene, Idaho), Fargo always made sense to my mother.  Even if she was not one to follow rules or social expectations, she was one to follow her heart. In Fargo she would raise a family and know her kids would be safe, she could find a church and develop a relationship with a spiritual community, she would know the grocery stores, shopping malls, cheapest places to find wine, and would never have to go too far to find a friend (or make a friend) to laugh with.

Even though she did entertain how grand it would be to move out of the house that also held her late childhood, once we were born I never heard her consider leaving the city.  It is as if they had an unmentioned bond with no need to challenge its worth.

So, when I moved away and didn’t come back…I know it was hard for my mother.  When something is hard for the mother you respect and adore than that something is hard for you too.  I don’t think we ever truly understood the love that each one of us had for our cities. Each time my mother would visit me in Philadelphia (5 times all together?) I could hear her straining to be positive, always picking out the nice things she could say, before something she didn’t like would slip out.  To her, Philadelphia was rude, dirty, big, and scary.  She loved the trees and really genuinely tried to see the rocks as gems, but sometimes people just don’t like the same things.  She wanted her quiet, friendly Fargo; I wanted my rude, authentic Philly.

 

That’s where I found myself in the summer of 2014 as I visited my home in Philadelphia but missed my home, my mother, in Fargo:  home and homesick–permanently torn in alternative directions.

But it should be easier for me now, because I’ve grown used to the tension.  No matter where I go she will never be there, but also now she always will.

 

Home with no more far away.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)  –E. E. Cummings

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Her Secret Cupboard

Posted on January 9, 2016 by Birthdays Cancer Christmas Gifts Grief Loss Mothers 2

My mom has a secret cupboard where she stores extra presents that she bought.

I guess it wasn’t actually that secret; my brother and I knew that if we looked in the cupboards in the basement across from the big freezer we would ruin our Christmas/Birthday surprise.

Surprisingly, it was easy for my brother and I to resist the urge to spoil our presents and we mostly left the cupboards alone. That task became more difficult as time went on, though, because my mother had a bit of a present buying addiction and the cupboards had a way of overflowing. She would buy gifts from January until December and usually by around October she’d bought more than enough presents for everyone she knew, so she’d start buying “emergency gifts” or extras for the next year.

It was one of her best and most hoarding-like qualities.

Even though she gave gifts prolifically to those around her and her family, those cupboards in the basement across from the big freezer are still full of “extras”.

This summer I found two Dr. Seuss books there (Green Eggs and Ham and The Cat in the Hat) that I brought to my new elementary classroom. I knew that she would have wanted to give me a starter care package for my new job and my new kiddos—the cupboards made sure she still could.

And last birthday my dad ciphered through the “extras” and gave me the “Happy Birthday” black socks with cake pieces all over them. This Christmas he found a beautifully hand painted mug still with the tag on the bottom from Ten Thousand Villages, but politely with the price torn off (my mother always taught me it was rude to let someone know how much you’d spent—or saved—on their present).

This was the best gift. This was the gift that read “From: Mom”. This was her still giving and giving even a year and a half after she was gone.

I wonder if some tiny part of her knew…
Knew that she would have to leave early.
Knew that she didn’t want to.
Knew that we would need a cupboard of presents to last us through the years.

I haven’t ravaged through all the extras yet, I still want to be surprised by my mother’s quirky gifts at Christmas and birthdays. But, I have taken a peek and seen baby clothes and house warming wine glasses.

These things won’t make up for the fact that she won’t be there when we move into our first house or if I adopt or have a baby, but a little part of her will be there.

A little part of you will always be here.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart) –-E. E. Cummings

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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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